Fire In Your Heart
by arduna
Summary: "We're all afraid of dying. The trick is to find something worth dying for." (d'Artagnan, Episode 3.7 Fool's Gold). How do men survive war? Not just by bravery, or skill, or luck, but the ability to remember, in the midst of the madness, what it is that they are fighting for: honour, and hope, and love. They survive by remaining true to themselves and their brothers.
1. Chapter 1

_Part 3 of Battlescars carries on from the events described in Light up the Dark when d'Artagnan returns to Athos and Porthos at the front, which I've assumed is in the autumn of 1634, two years into the war according to the BBC timeline. It's not quite as gloomy as BS Part 2, and explores more of the life of the Musketeer regiment at war through the eyes of all three of them. Even so there are plenty of repercussions from d'Artagnan's captivity so you do need to know what happened in BS2. If you don't want to read it, or need a quick refresher, there's a summary at the end of this Prologue._

 _The Prologue is short but after that I'm back to my usual long chapters, so I plan to update on Wednesdays and Sundays so you have time to find a quiet moment to curl up with a cup of tea, wine or whatever brings you peace._

 _There is some occasional bad language and mild blasphemy, but only where I felt it would be unrealistic to sanitise their words._

 _The story titles and chapter titles are all taken from two songs by Paradise Fears: Battlescars, and Warrior._

 _As always, the main characters belong to Dumas and the BBC's The Musketeers, but the events in my stories come from my imagination and I give them freely for the enjoyment of others._

 **Battlescars 3: Fire in Your Heart**

 **Prologue: Paris, 1636 (1455)**

"Athos?"

He looks up and smiles: the carefree, teasing smile that still surprises her even though he's been wearing it for weeks. Ever since he's taken to spending his nights away from the garrison, with Sylvie.

"You know that night?"

He doesn't need to ask which night. There is only one night, recently, that they all think about; the one where d'Artagnan had at last talked to them all about everything he had been through when held captive by the Spanish. That's the night when the air had finally been cleared between them all. Porthos and Aramis have been closer since then, plotting escapades and chuckling together as they recount each night's adventures over breakfast, and d'Artagnan has begun to lose the haunted look he's carried for the last two years.

"In the mess room, you were asking d'Artagnan about something. About something that happened at Roncesvalle."

 _Merde_. His smile fades; he knows it but he's powerless to hide his dismay at the name which brings guilt and anger and fear churning instantly into his gut. He rallies his famed control with an effort. "You have sharp hearing. That was a discussion between him and me."

She has the grace to look embarrassed for a second, then the fire he's become used to seeing flashes in her eyes again. There are times when he wonders how d'Artagnan copes with her strength of character. Then again, Sylvie is hardly what you would describe as compliant or weak. He sighs, wondering if their lives would all be easier without women. Then realises he already knows the answer: easier, but less ... interesting. He smiles inwardly at the idea of voicing this to Sylvie. She has brought so much more to his life: colour, and fire, and challenge; she makes the blood sing in his veins. She makes him a better person.

"... Athos, are you even listening?" Constance is in his face now, eyes sparking with irritation, and he wonders how long he's been day-dreaming. He takes an imperceptible step backwards, remembering that night when – amongst many other things – she'd belted him so hard that his teeth rattled. Just before d'Artagnan broke his nose.

" _Athos_!"

He really has to focus. She's positively vibrating with ire now, and heads are turning all around the garrison courtyard. Sadly none of those heads appear to be d'Artagnan's – Athos suspects he is the only person capable of deflecting Constance right now.

"Yes." He can't actually remember the question but he has a fifty-fifty chance of that being the correct answer and it is worth trying.

She tips her head to one side, with a suspicious expression that suggests she knows full well he is guessing. "Yes, what?"

 _Merde_ , again. "Yes, I am listening." She can't see his fingers crossed behind his back, he reasons. He's outbluffed Generals before now; surely he can handle with d'Artagnan's wife –

"And?"

His back touches a pillar and he realises he's been slowly backing up. Dammit! He is surrounded by musketeers and normally he can't set foot in the courtyard without someone demanding something of him. Where is everyone? Taking his eyes off Constance for a second he scans the courtyard rapidly, finding plenty of musketeers and cadets lurking but none facing him. All seem to be extraordinarily busy doing something that entails them keeping their backs to him. Rat-tailed, lily-livered, spineless cowards, the lot of them.

"And... I have things to do Constance. Much as I relish your company, I do have to get on so if you don't mind..." He tries to step around her and just as quickly she shifts so she is still standing between him and escape.

"Not so fast. You said yes, so when? When will you explain about Roncesvalle, and what happened between you and d'Artagnan there?"

Ah. That must have been the question. Damn Sylvie and her beguiling eyes, distracting him.

"Please?"

Athos tsks and rolls his eyes. "Have you not heard enough about the war yet? I would have thought –"

"It still troubles him."

Athos stills, his eyes searching her face. "What ... what do you mean?"

"He talks about it in his sleep."

"Are you sure? How do you know he's talking about – Roncesvalle?" He holds his breath. He really doesn't want to hear that it still bothers d'Artagnan enough to trouble his sleep.

"I don't. Not for sure. But it's about you, so unless there's something else which happened in the war that might make him fret...?"

Oh, there are many things that could still trouble d'Artagnan, he knows: they all have nightmares aplenty, and some things from the war will never leave them. But Roncesvalles? He has so hoped that it no longer bothered d'Artagnan the way it bothers him. He admits this to himself but no one else. Not Porthos, and certainly not d'Artagnan.

"What does he say in his sleep?"

"He says sorry, mostly." She sees him relax fractionally, and feels angry at this hint of things still hidden. "Don't tell me it's nothing. I'm not stupid. I've asked him, and he just says it's not important and it's been dealt with long ago. If I push, he says it's not about him, it's about you. So what is it, Athos?"

"Something that happened in wartime, two years ago, which is no longer important." A new voice joins the conversation, gentle but firm. Trying to head her off.

Athos breaths a inner sigh of relief and smiles at d'Artagnan, as the subject of their discussion joins them and tucks his hand under Constance's elbow.

"If it's so unimportant, why not tell me?" The woman is relentless!

"Constance – "

"If it's still coming up, probably best to tell everyone." Someone else joins the conversation, this one sounding light-hearted and annoyingly chirpy. No prizes for guessing who it belongs to.

Athos groans out loud. _Now_ they all pop out of the woodwork! He swivels on his heel and glares at Aramis, who is leaning on the next pillar along, arms crossed, looking relaxed and ever-so-slightly smug.

It's alright for him! _He_ doesn't have four year's worth of failed battle plans, arguments and misunderstandings to own up to. _He_ doesn't have more deaths on his conscience than ... than... than scars on his body! He doesn't have a hundred injuries that could have been avoided if Athos had chosen differently, planned better, worked harder...

"Admittedly – " Aramis pushes himself off the pillar and wanders over to stand next to Constance – "I don't know what you're talking about, but it strikes me that even if you say it's dealt with, d'Artagnan, perhaps Athos feels differently? Whatever it is..." He trails off as Athos turns to glare at him.

" _Athos_ is perfectly capable of speaking for himself, thank you," hisses Athos, acerbically.

"Go on, then," rejoins Constance promptly. _Aiiee_!

d'Artagnan grins at Athos. "Now you know how it feels to be married to a smart woman," he tells him, gravely, at the same time as he casually disengages himself from her and takes a precautionary step sideways.

Coward. Athos ignores the fact that he himself has spent the last few minutes backing away from her and catches d'Artagnan's eye. "We dealt with it. You said so; I said so; we moved on. Do you really want to go back there? With them?" Athos waves a hand at Constance and Aramis.

d'Artagnan hesitates visibly, and Athos throws his hands up in despair.

d'Artagnan looks apologetic, but speaks firmly. "No, Athos, wait. _I_ am fine about it – you know that. You were the one who brought it up when I was talking about – you know. Everything. And since then, apparently, I've been dreaming – but not about that; or not just about that. I think it's just reminded me of everything we went through together – and it's not all bad." He turns earnest eyes on Constance. "It's just – there's a lot of it to process. Come to terms with. There wasn't a lot of time to think, on the front, let alone have heart-to-heart talks."

He stops, seeing the fear in Athos' face, and understands it instantly. Fear that raking over old coals will just re-ignite the embers. He hesitates, sure of his gut feeling that Athos, not he, needs to talk about it, but sees the naked plea in Athos' eyes and turns instead to Constance in an attempt to get her to back down. "Look, my love, it doesn't mean there's a problem, or anything more we need to talk about. Maybe it's best just to ..."

"Move on?" A deep voice from the courtyard as Porthos wanders up them. He's clearly been listening in, at least to the last part. "Thing is, d'Artagnan, I think Aramis is right. Maybe it's time Athos talked about it, cos I'm not sure he's accepted it as easily as you did."

Athos curses and stalks off, heading out of the archway. Scurrying footsteps behind him told him – as he'd feared – that it won't be easy to shake Constance off. A snatch of conversation tells him the others aren't far behind. Shaking his head, he carries on, but gradually slows his pace so they can catch him up.

"Where are we going?" asks Porthos conversationally, slinging an arm around his Captain's shoulders.

"The Wren. If you insist on doing this I'll need a glass in my hand."

Porthos chuckles and beckoned the others to catch up. Athos has given way surprisingly quickly and that speaks volumes for what he's feeling under his impassive visage. It is high time he talked about it.

Aramis catches Porthos' arm as the others ducked through the doorway of the Wren. "Is this the right place to do this?"

Porthos looks at him, considering. He knows what Aramis means. When d'Artagnan started unravelling, a week or two ago, it took them the best part of a day to tease the story out of him, and it was not without its dramas. He remembers the ill-placed bucket in the stables and chuckles, but sobers almost instantly, remembering the high emotions of that long night.

Aramis is still waiting for an answer, deep concern in his eyes. Porthos thinks about the things they haven't talked about yet, and sighs. "It's war stories, my friend. Nothin' you 'aven't heard, or been through yourself."

Aramis feels an unexpected glow; he wasn't expecting Porthos to be so generous. He's the outsider here, after all: the soldier who didn't fight, and although he knows Porthos has forgiven him, there is still a distance between them. A distance of four years.

Porthos tuts, and slings an arm around his shoulders, reading his face as easily as if he'd spoken aloud. "It's Athos' choice. Maybe he feels safer doing it in public. Less chance of flying elbows, or slaps."

"Is that likely?" Aramis sounds nervous as Porthos shoulders the door open and steers them both in. They squint in the smoky gloom but spot the others with practiced ease, sitting at the table furthest from the bar. Porthos is laughing out loud by the time they sit down, enjoying Aramis' apprehension. "Only if your name's Athos, _mon ami_ ," he says, leaning across and snagging a pair of goblets and one of the bottles Athos has already procured.

Athos looks up at his name, but doesn't react. His face is mostly in shadow and Aramis can't see his expression, only his hands where his long fingers toy with an empty goblet. Constance looks curious, concerned, apprehensive – much like Aramis feels – and d'Artagnan is leaning forward, forearms on the table, hands clasped, looking contemplative.

For a while no one speaks. Aramis is usually the first one to fill any awkward silence with his own special blend of gallantry and humour, but he's out of his depths here, not knowing what's coming, so he holds his tongue. Eventually there's a slight jerk on his left, where Porthos sits looking relaxed and capable, as always, and at the same time Athos startles, almost dropping his goblet as his hands twitch. He looks their way and glowers, and it dawns on Aramis that Porthos has just kicked Athos under the table.

Porthos shrugs, not even bothering to look innocent. d'Artagnan catches on and grins, and Constance looks from face to face looking lost. "Is anyone going to tell me what's going on?" she demands eventually.

Everyone looks at Athos, who brought them all here, and he carries on staring into his empty goblet. Eventually d'Artagnan clears his throat and all heads swing his way. "Shall I start?" he asks no one in particular. Porthos nods encouragement. d'Artagnan takes a last look Athos' way, sighs, and begins.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 _ **Battlescars Two: Light up the Dark** tells the story of how, earlier in the war, d'Artagnan was in a patrol ambushed by the Spanish, held captive and interrogated for five weeks during which time he and the other survivor were both raped. They were eventually left to die in oubliettes, and by the time Athos and Porthos found them only d'Artagnan was still alive. Whilst recovering from his injuries he was forced to fight by a heartless General, and put his own life heedlessly at risk to protect Porthos, scaring Athos so much that he sent him back to Paris to recuperate properly. Tréville recognised the signs of d'Artagnan's mental instability and took him to Douai, where Aramis was able to help him come to terms with what happened._

 _BS 2 was set after the events of Season 3 Episode 5 To Play the King, in which d'Artagnan had to shoot Borel (the mentally-scarred ex-soldier who escaped from the Châtelet during the attempt to break into the King's gold reserves) in order to protect the Queen. d'Artagnan was so disturbed by what had transpired, and the reminder of how he'd suffered at the hands of the Spanish, that the others began to break down his barriers and he eventually told all of them the details which he had withheld from them when he returned from Douai to the front. In BS3 we come to understand more about why he hadn't talked about his experiences with Athos and Porthos at the time, and what happened as a result._


	2. Chapter 1: Stuck in the Shadows

Hi everyone, I'm ahead of myself so thought I'd post the next chapter early, as a get-well-soon present to Debbie and anyone else with the dreaded flu. Hope you enjoy!

 **Chapter One: Stuck In the Shadows ...**

 _Roncesvalles, autumn 1634_

The imposing black warhorse picked its way slowly down the slope, its rider scanning the countryside constantly, one hand resting on his pistol. It was early still, and the muted birdsong was almost lost in the breeze stirring the low bushes bordering the track they followed.

At the foot of the hill the pair stopped and the rider surveyed the flat land ahead, his eyes squinting against the sun. The breeze ruffled his long hair and his horse shifted under him, stamping a foot nervously and tossing her head.

The smell was overpowering.

The rider gentled his mount automatically, long fingers soothing her neck, not taking his eyes off the battlefield in front of them. The ground was scuffed and scarred, as if mighty feet had trodden its surface, and belongings were scattered everywhere. Not weapons – those had been gathered and taken away – but scraps of shirt; a strip of stained bandaging; over there a brown hat; one boot, lying on its side, the remains of a bloodied foot still inside. A water bottle. The broken hilt of a sword. The body of a horse, stripped of saddle and bridle. A large patch of disturbed ground away to his left, where the buzz of insects was loudest.

Stained earth everywhere. Flies settling and rising in waves from each patch of sullied ground.

The rider sighed, and took up the reins again, picking a pathway around the edges of the battlefield, resisting the urge to turn and head away. Anywhere but here. Knowing this scene of hellish desolation was in his future for many long months to come.

The pair found a new track the other side of the carnage, ground trampled into submission. It led towards another hill and they followed it steadily, not rushing now, hearing the sounds of men – living men – mingling in a rising murmur as they reached the crest and looked down on another familiar scene.

Tents: rows of them, acres of canvas, arranged in squares around larger command tents. Wide central pathways teeming with men – hundreds of men even at this early hour, heading towards the latrines, or the mess tents, or returning from guard duty. Unhurried movements, no sense of urgency. There would be no fighting today.

Another sigh, then a squaring of the shoulders as the rider urged his mount to quicken the pace down the last slope towards the camp. He might have very mixed feelings about being back, but he was hungry, and had been riding since first light. And he needed to know that his brothers were still alive.

"Halt!"

A sharp command from one of the pair of guards blocking the track where it turned into the camp.

"State your name and business."

"d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers." His voice felt husky from days of travelling alone, talking only to his mare. He didn't bother stating his business, thinking the name of the Musketeers enough to gain him entry. The regiment had long since joined with other regiments from the regular army, and the men shared a reasonably harmonious camp. There was little time for rivalries in the middle of a bloody war.

This particular guard seemed to have different ideas.

"Your business?"

"I'm returning to camp, to my regiment."

"Password."

"I don't know the password. I've been on ... on a mission, to Paris, for several weeks. Listen, if you could just..."

Twin barrels from two _arquebuses,_ the long-barrelled but portable matchlock guns used in battle, swung his way, attracting attention from another group of guards talking to a tall officer standing a few metres inside the gateway.

"Get off your horse!" The guard's voice made it clear he wasn't messing about.

"Look, I have letters for Captain Athos of the King's Musketeers..."

"Dismount!"

d'Artagnan was beginning to lose his composure now. He had been travelling hard for days, on his own, with very little sleep. It was hard enough coming back to the front without this idiot of a guard standing officiously in his way pointing a gun at him. A loaded gun, d'Artagnan noticed as he saw the guard blowing carefully on the fuse under the hammer. He swallowed his irritation and slid carefully off Nuit, keeping his hands well away from his own weapons.

"If you could send someone to find Athos, or any Musketeer for that matter, they will vouch for me."

"Hand over the letters." The officer had joined them and it was his voice now snapping out the orders. He stood with his hand out, expectantly. He was well-groomed with perfect diction, perfect skin, and well-maintained beard that probably hid a receding chin thought d'Artagnan uncharitably. Typical second-son noble, quickly promoted during war but with no experience of running a regiment.

"Sorry, but I can't hand over you private letters addressed to my Captain. If you could just send someone – "

"Who the hell do you think you are?" The lieutenant took a step forward, his guards instantly readjusting their positions to keep d'Artagnan in the line of fire.

"I'm sub-lieutenant d'Artagnan, of the King's Musketeers. And you are...?" d'Artagnan kept his voice steady but inside he was beginning to boil.

"Well, d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers – " the sneer obvious in the way he spat the words out – "I am Lieutenant Colombe of the Régiment de Picardie, Second Battalion, and you do not have the authority to **question my orders**!" The last words were punctuated by a pointing finger that ended up jabbing d'Artagnan on the chest.

d'Artagnan thrust his chin forward, eyes blazing as he met the cold challenge in the man's eyes. He was just pulling in a breath ready to explode when someone shouted his name from within the camp.

"d'Artagnan?" A tone of disbelief, but loud enough to pull d'Artagnan back from the brink as he was deciding whether to insult this jobs-worth Lieutenant or thump him and to hell with the consequences. Then a second shout, more sure this time, and full of joy. "d'Artagnan! Oh, _mon Dieu_ , it _is_ you!"

There was the sound of running footsteps and grumbles from men pushed aside as someone raced towards the camp entrance. d'Artagnan dragged his eyes reluctantly from the lieutenant who also turned, irritated at the interruption - just in time to scuttle to one side as a young Musketeer literally hurled himself through the air.

d'Artagnan had a split second to brace himself before the well-known figure of Fouchard, a recruit around his own age who had become a good friend over the last two years, landed on him, instantly wrapping arms and legs around d'Artagnan's torso on a strangling hug. d'Artagnan staggered backwards under his momentum, half laughing, half choking, as Fouchard thumped him enthusiastically on the back then suddenly let him go, apologising madly. " _Merde_ , d'Artagnan, I forgot – are you all healed up now? Did I hurt you? Why didn't you tell us you were coming? Porthos is going to be furious to have missed you but Athos is here – come on!"

And without pausing for breath, and apparently oblivious to the triple glares aimed his way from the lieutenant and the guards, Fouchard grabbed d'Artagnan's reins with one hand, slung his free arm around his friend's shoulders, and swept him off into camp.

* * *

"Sir?"

"Is it urgent, Fouchard?" The weariness in Athos' voice was obvious, even muffled by canvas.

Fouchard was literally bouncing with excitement as he waited outside Athos' tent. "Um, not strictly urgent, Sir, but you definitely want to see this."

There was an audible sigh from within, the sound of creaking as he rose from his chair, a rustle of parchment, and then a heartbeat before a hand pushed the tent flap to one side. And there he was, his beard overgrown, face covered in stubble and fading bruises in equal measure, unruly hair where he'd been shoving a hand through it in frustration. Eyes pinched and tired and a posture that screamed lack of sleep to d'Artagnan, taking all this in the split second before Athos' face lit up in recognition.

"Jesus!" he breathed. d'Artagnan grinned, opening his mouth to make the obvious joke, and Athos groaned, held up a warning hand with a glare, then starting to laugh at himself. "Must be a record," he murmured, pulling d'Artagnan in for a firm hug, "ten seconds and we're already arguing."

Looking over d'Artagnan's shoulder he saw Fouchard still standing there, beaming from ear to ear with pleasure at the sight of his Captain smiling. A real, genuine smile.

"Fouchard? Could you – "

"On my way, Sir."

d'Artagnan drew back from Athos and looked at him. Athos shrugged. "It's catching."

d'Artagnan started to laugh as he pushed into the tent, plonking himself down uninvited on Athos' bed. "Feels like I've never been away."

"Not to me. To us."

d'Artagnan looked up, sobering so quickly that Athos wondered if his laughter had been a front, covering – what: nervousness?

"What have I missed? You're both unhurt? Have we lost anyone?" The questions started tumbling out, fast and urgent until Athos held a hand up.

"We're both fine. We've had some good results, as you can tell from where we're based now."

d'Artagnan nodded. "You're twenty miles further south than when I left."

Athos made a wry face. "Another twenty miles of prime Spanish dust under our belts."

d'Artagnan heard the bitterness in his tone. "Who did we lose?"

"Corbière. Valois. Plourde. All on the battlefield. We got Masson back here but he died soon after. Perrault and Tailler are still receiving treatment."

d'Artagnan was silent for a while, hands clenched on his lap, fingers twisting as he pictured each man Athos had named. Some of them had been close friends, others he hadn't know so long, but they were all good men. And they were Musketeers, under Athos' command. Every death, every injury, hit their Captain hardest of all.

"How are things within the camp?"

"Oh, probably the same as when you left. We have our moments and the Generals are all imbeciles, of course, but the men get on well enough."

"Do you know a Lieutenant Colombe? Picardy regiment?"

Athos considered. "I can't say I've come across him. Why?"

d'Artagnan shrugged. "He was a bit unhelpful at the gate, that's all. Fouchard came along at the right moment and rescued me just before I lost my temper."

Athos' head shot up and he fixed d'Artagnan with a steely look. "What happened?"

d'Artagnan was beginning to wish he'd never mentioned the man, but before he could explain further, they both heard the unmistakeable sounds of a short-tempered Porthos approaching the tent.

"I've just got back an' I am hungry, tired an' filthy, Fouchard, so unless you've got a damn good reason for draggin' me over here you'd better make yourself scarce or you'll find yourself on latrine duty for the next month, an' I can promise you ..."

Athos & d'Artagnan exchanged glances as they heard Fouchard, sounding remarkably unperturbed, interrupt him. "Just go in, Porthos. You'll see." His words were accompanied by a soft slap of leather, as if he'd had given Porthos a gentle shove, but sure enough the tent flap was thrust aside and Porthos' silhouette filled the entrance. Squinting against the light, d'Artagnan couldn't make out Porthos' expression but, he gathered, nor could Porthos see much in the tent's dim interior.

"Athos, what the hell do you want?" It seemed Porthos was happy to turn his foul mood on Athos. Sighing, and thinking he seemed to do a lot of that these days, Athos rose from the chair and stepped to one side so Porthos could see to the back of the tent where d'Artagnan was just rising from the bed.

For a moment there was a silence in the tent, broken only by a small snigger from Fouchard who was lurking in the tent doorway. Then an explosion of noise and movement as Porthos lurched forwards, practically knocking Athos to the ground as he hurtled past him and fell upon d'Artagnan, bellowing his name and wrapping what felt like a lot more than two arms around him. With no time to prepare himself d'Artagnan collapsed under the weight of the greeting and there was a flurry of legs and arms as the pair toppled onto Athos' bed – and onwards to the ground, as the flimsy wood cracked under the strain of Porthos' enthusiasm.

Athos stood surveying the ruins of his bed, where d'Artagnan could be seen struggling to wriggle out from under Porthos, half laughing but face screwed up in – pain? Athos shot forward, grabbed a hand and hauled the Gascon out like a cork from a bottle, leaving Porthos to roll to his feet.

"You alright?" Athos enquired as he dusted the Gascon down and glared at Porthos who was clambering to his feet, holding a couple of struts from the bed with a slightly bewildered expression on his face.

"Yes, fine, now I can breathe. Honestly," d'Artagnan added, seeing the familiar scepticism on Athos' face.

"Fouchard?"

"Yes Sir?"

"Next time warn him?"

Pause, then a sheepish "Sorry, Sir" from Fouchard.

Porthos turned to d'Artagnan and gave him a more circumspect, but equally heartfelt, hug, then pulled back, holding him by the shoulders to scrutinise him carefully. d'Artagnan ducked his head and cuffed him lightly, looking embarrassed, and Porthos laughed out loud. He was back! Really back, not just here in body but in spirit too; their fiery, impulsive, cheeky, irrepressible, lucky charm of a Gascon was back properly, the sparkle in his eyes and the fire in his belly. Porthos laughed again, relief spreading through his taut muscles like the warmth from a campfire shared with friends.

He started firing questions out. "When did you get back? Why didn't Tréville tell us you were coming back? How are you doing – are you fit? Did you see Constance? God, I've missed you!"

d'Artagnan was laughing, hugging Porthos and mouthing 'help!' over his shoulder to Athos.

"Put him down, Porthos," said Athos obligingly, not looking half as stern as his words implied.

Reluctantly Porthos let go of him and looked around for somewhere to sit. "Ah, Athos... sorry 'bout your bed."

"Hmm." Athos stuck his head out of the tent flap and found Fouchard close by, talking to a soldier from the supply corps. "Fouchard!"

Fouchard patted the soldier on the back and loped back to Athos. "Sir?"

"I'm going to need a new bed," Athos informed him drily.

"Already on it Sir. Fallard will get you a replacement and I've asked him to find you something to sit on in the meantime. Food's on its way too, and could you tell d'Artagnan I'll go and see to Nuit now, unless you need me for anything else?"

"When did Fouchard get so efficient?" d'Artagnan whispered to Porthos as Athos thanked the young musketeer and dismissed him.

Porthos chuckled. "Ah, 'e's a good lad, that one. Bin lookin' after Athos while you were away."

Athos' sceptical look at the idea that he might need looking after sent both Porthos and d'Artagnan into a fit of laughter and Fouchard, as he headed off to the horse lines to make sure d'Artagnan's horse was groomed, watered and fed after her long journey, felt his heart lift at the sound. This camp needed cheering up, and it seemed d'Artagnan's arrival back might just be doing it.

* * *

An hour later the trio were crammed around the small map table in Athos' tent, perched on two crates and an empty powder-keg, finishing a sparse lunch of bread and cheese – no change there, then – washed down with the watered-down camp mead that passed for alcohol these days.

They'd consciously kept the talk neutral over their meal, with Athos updating d'Artagnan on the regiment's news, and Porthos on the camp's gossip. Now the attention turned to d'Artagnan.

"So how was Paris?"

"Mm, it was... busy. Full of refugees. The Queen has set aside an area near the docks where they can settle, and she organises food supplies for them every week. Lots of empty dwellings, more whorehouses, all the best wine seems to have been locked away. You'd hate it, Athos."

A wry smile from Athos. He was virtually tee-total in the war, enjoying only an occasional bottle of decent wine when a supply wagon came in.

"Oh, that reminds me." d'Artagnan dug in his saddlebag and produced a bottle of best brandy for each of them. "Gift from Tréville." Another rummage and he came up with a round of mountain cheese for Athos and a jar of honey for Porthos. "From Constance."

"How is the lovely lady?"

The question he'd been dreading. "She looks well."

Two pairs of eyes swung his way. "' _Looks_ '?" queried Porthos.

d'Artagnan dragged in a long breath. He didn't want to withhold anything from his friends but he'd hoped for a bit more time before being grilled. "I ... didn't meet her."

"What? Why ever not? I thought you'd – ow!" This last directed at Athos who had clearly nudged, prodded or stood on some bit of Porthos to shut him up.

"Let him tell it his own way."

d'Artagnan managed a fleeting smile of thanks at Athos, but inside he was panicking.

In the peaceful surroundings of Douai, he'd managed to tell Aramis everything about his capture and ill-treatment at the hands of the Spanish, and felt stronger as a result. But he'd been dreading coming back to the front. He knew his mind was still full of doubts and fears, and the last thing he wanted was to divulge this to Athos and Porthos. They had enough worries keeping everyone safe, without worrying about him all over again. He just wanted to get back to how he was before; back to being a Musketeer – not a victim to be fussed over and protected. So in his room at the inn in Paris as he prepared to travel back, he had decided not to tell the others about his treatment in the hands of the Spanish, and to make sure they didn't know how much everything still played on his mind.

However he'd forgotten how persistent his brothers could be, and how intuitive. Of course they would need reassurance that he was back to his old self, and that was exactly what he couldn't give them, because at the moment it was still all an act. He had hoped that if he behaved the way everyone expected, sooner or later it would become reality again, not just a conscious front. But in the meantime, his brothers were watching him and waiting for answers.

He hadn't realised how long the silence had lasted until Porthos tutted and snatched his feet up out of the way before Athos could stamp on him again. "No point sitting 'ere all night, Athos! Now listen, lad, we both know full well what a state you were in when Athos sent you north, so don't mess about. Just tell us. We'll understand, you know we will."

d'Artagnan bit his lip, looking from one to the other. He was confident they would understand, but the problem was he didn't _want_ them to know. Not now, while they still faced the battlefield virtually daily, and had to rely on each other's strength of mind as well as body.

If they knew what he'd been through – and what he still went through every night, and all too often during the day whenever he stopped work and had time to think – they would never leave him alone. He would be a liability: the weak link, the one they had to protect.

And he couldn't bear that. Not only because it would distract them, thus putting them at risk if they felt that had to look out for him. But it would also mean he was forever trapped in his memories, seeing them reflected in his friends' eyes every time they looked at him, or asked how he was feeling or whether he had slept, because he was damaged now, or would be, in their eyes.

He didn't want to be that person! He wanted to be d'Artagnan again; the strong, fearless, reckless youth he'd always been – until three months ago.

And so began the lonely lies.

Oh, he told them some of the truth: plenty of it, in fact. About how he'd been in such a state when he'd made it back to Paris that Nuit had led him to the garrison before he'd realised; that he couldn't bring himself to go in; that he'd waited in the street outside until he'd seen Tréville arrive from the Palace to take morning muster. How Tréville had found a quiet inn for him to stay in, and an experienced physician to talk to.

He told them how he'd seen Constance from afar, several times, and spent hours with Tréville before he left for the front again, catching up with all the news from the garrison which he in turn shared with them. Constance was keeping them all fed on what little she could find in the market plus what they could grow on the training ground behind the garrison; Serge was grumbling more than ever. He passed on Tréville's assessment of the new recruits and which ones would shortly be ready for their commissions. d'Artagnan described Tréville (looking fit and purposeful, and coping better with the palace than he'd expected) and Constance (looking vibrant and confident, with cadets following her everywhere helping with her errands) and Paris (flooded with refugees and short on food), and the doctor who'd treated him (lots of talking) and his recovery (mostly just resting, walking, riding outside Paris when he could).

All of that was true. He just missed out the most important part – about spending weeks with Aramis, talking everything through. And about the fact that he still felt hollow with fears and nightmares, because then he'd have had to explain everything, and he just wasn't ready to do that. Not here. Not when they had to fight alongside each other, depend on each other, every day.

He must have been convincing, because Porthos was soon chortling away at the garrison tales Tréville had passed on, and Athos had opened his bottle of brandy, and they drank toasts to each others' health, and for another hour the war didn't exist inside this cosy tent.

But eventually Athos' keen eyes noticed how exhausted d'Artagnan looked, and he put the cork back in the brandy bottle and sent d'Artagnan to get some rest before the evening meal and muster. Porthos gave him a quick tour of the Musketeers' camp and then appropriated a cot from another tent – d'Artagnan didn't ask where the bed's previous owner was – and set it up in his own tent. It was a squeeze, but both men were used to stepping around each other and keeping their belongings organised in the tiny space, and both slept better for hearing the other's snoring, though neither would admit it.

d'Artagnan lay dutifully on his bed for several hours, listening to the sounds of camp going on outside the tent, wondering if he would ever feel at home here again.

Then he rose, washed the travel dust from his face and hair, and found Porthos as he headed for the mess tent. When he'd last been in camp he'd been incapable of even entering the tent, let alone eating there, but today he reminded himself sternly that he was 'being d'Artagnan', and made it inside.

They entered to a flurry of greetings from other Musketeers and army soldiers as they gathered their food and found a place to sit. So many came over to ask if he'd recovered or enquire after news from Paris that eventually Porthos had to growl at them to leave him alone so he could eat in peace.

Muster was uneventful. d'Artagnan spent most of it trying to put faces to the names of the new musketeers who'd arrived in his absence, as Athos called out the roster for the night's duties. Afterwards Porthos accompanied Athos to a briefing meeting so d'Artagnan was left to join the off-duty Musketeers around the camp fire. Trying to remember how to banter; trying to fit in.

* * *

On the way back through camp the two Musketeer officers walked shoulder to shoulder, both lost in thought, until eventually Porthos broke the silence. "Do you think...?" he started.

"Yes."

Porthos looked at him. "Even I didn't know what I was going to ask!" he protested.

"You were going to ask if d'Artagnan's hiding something."

He was probably right, mused Porthos, although there had been a hundred other questions in his mind. Was d'Artagnan better? Why hadn't he wanted to see Constance? Had he asked Tréville for news of Aramis? Could he really be so improved after just a bit of talking with a doctor? Would he be safe on the battlefield again...?

All of which could be summed up as d'Artagnan not being straight with them. So although they were both incredibly relieved to see him back, they both knew they would need to keep a close eye on him. Without him knowing, of course.


	3. 2 of the Person I'm Supposed to Be

**... of the Person I'm Supposed To Be**

Porthos wasn't sure what woke him. He lay quietly, listening for a moment then turned over, burrowing under his favourite blanket, the one Constance had insisted on mending for him before they set off ... more than two years ago, he realised. It was hard to believe. Sometimes it felt like only a few weeks; other times he could barely remember what 'normal' life was like.

He loved soldiering: it was in his blood, what he did best. But this war was ... well, it had gone on too long. Already. And they'd nearly lost d'Artagnan, in the worst possible way. He was back now, and Porthos would do anything in his power to keep him safe. But somehow he wondered whether that would be enough.

Realising his thoughts had pushed him into full wakefulness, he opened his eyes again, wondering how long it was until dawn. He looked over at d'Artagnan, lying on his back, one arm across his eyes. Chest rising regularly, and yet... "You awake?"

A beat, then a small sigh. "Yes."

"Thought you'd be more tired after your journey."

Another pause, then d'Artagnan's quiet voice. "I seem to have forgotten how to sleep." The admission was wry, but betrayed his weariness.

Porthos hesitated. "Bad dreams?"

The next pause lasted so long Porthos wondered if d'Artagnan had gone drifted off. Or didn't want to answer. Eventually he couldn't bear the suspense any longer. "Sorry – I didn' mean to pry."

d'Artagnan stirred then sat up, rolling his neck and shoulders. "It's okay. I just... I did a lot of talking while I was away and I... well, I just wanted to leave it all behind." He shivered, and pulled his blanket around his shoulders, wrapping his arms around his knees to keep warm.

"Doesn' work like that though, does it?" Porthos replied sympathetically, also sitting up.

"No ... but I'm afraid if I keep talking about everything it'll just – stay with me."

Porthos thought for a moment. He knew what d'Artagnan was saying – there were plenty of memories of his own that he'd rather forget – but you can't just will the memories to go away, and they always found ways of bugging you. Like in dreams.

"Right. 'ow about this: I don't ask questions, but you tell me if things crop up that bother you. Like a dream, or just, you know, havin' a bad day."

d'Artagnan looked over at him properly, and heaved out a long breath. He knew it made sense. He just wasn't sure he could do it.

"Whelp?"

d'Artagnan scowled. "Don't call me that."

Porthos just laughed. "So you _are_ still in there!"

Glaring, then starting to laugh himself, d'Artagnan felt something shift inside him, like a tiny crack in a piece of ice.

Maybe he could do this after all.

* * *

Neither of them had slept much after that, but d'Artagnan was used to it by now and felt reasonably alert in the morning. Emerging from their tent at dawn into a fresh-smelling, dew-covered camp, he stretched cautiously, feeling the stiffness in his legs and back from the long ride south, and the pull of newly healed scars. He clasped his fingers behind his head, arcing his back as far as he dared then twisting his body from side to side, pushing his limits a tad more each time until he felt warmth creep into his cold muscles.

Opening his eyes he saw Porthos watching him intently from the doorway of the tent. He stopped his stretches, feeling self-conscious, and Porthos apologised. "Just wonderin' when you'll be fit to fight. Will you spar with me this morning?"

He hesitated and Porthos chuckled. "I'll go easy on you."

d'Artagnan gave a wry smile but nodded. "Just don't chuck me on my back."

Instantly Porthos' face sobered. "Ain't it healed yet? You should go to Etienne – 'e'll be up now."

d'Artagnan looked around, trying to remember where the latrine trenches were, then caught a whiff and orientated himself. "I'm fine. It's healed, just tender still. Don't fuss."

Porthos chewed a lip, watching d'Artagnan walk away from him, then sighed and followed slowly.

* * *

Muster was short that morning, there being no scheduled fighting on which to brief the men, so Porthos organised training for everyone who was fit. d'Artagnan stood waiting his turn, enjoying the banter and jeering from the other watchers, but when Porthos called him over to spar with Mathis, one of the older Musketeers, he felt an unaccustomed nervousness.

He walked up to Mathis, wiping suddenly sweaty palms on his shirt, and as he took his stance he realised his legs felt shaky. He settled, trying to focus on Mathis and watch his eyes for a clue as to his first move, but it felt wrong. He'd never had to consciously tell himself what to do before. He was aware of the hubbub gradually dying down as those around stopped to watch.

Mathis made his first lunge, but d'Artagnan's feet felt heavy and he barely moved quickly enough to avoid the blade, twisting his body to the side and feeling a tweak of pain from a strained muscle in his back as he scrambled back into position. His rapier felt far too weighty in his hand and sweat stung his eyes. This was ridiculous! He hadn't struck a blow yet –

Mathis lunged again, and this time d'Artagnan got his blade up in time to parry the blow, but the force of it rocked him backwards and again he had to move his feet quickly to avoid tripping. Mathis looked more hesitant now, so d'Artagnan tried a couple of lunges of his own, but each strike took conscious effort and Mathis parried easily, then reposted with a series of movements that drove d'Artagnan back so fast that he really did trip, landing on his rear heavily and completely open to a killing blow if it had been a real fight. There was an audible gasp from the watchers and d'Artagnan shut his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose, his mouth tight with tension.

Porthos wandered over, trying to look casual as if it was common place for d'Artagnan – the best swordsman in the unit after Athos – to land in the dirt after barely two minutes of sparring. Mathis was holding out a hand to haul him up and d'Artagnan accepted it, thanking him gruffly and planting his unsteady feet wide, leaning on his blade for a moment as if he'd just fought a major battle. Was he really this unfit? He fought against a surge of panic. What if he couldn't do this anymore? He couldn't remember ever feeling this useless. His body wasn't responding; his rapier felt alien in his hand, he couldn't remember how to move his feet. How could he fight in this state?

Suddenly there was a stir amongst the silent onlookers, and a shuffling of feet. d'Artagnan looked up and saw Athos making his way through the throng. He stopped at the edge and had a quiet word with Porthos, then enquired, casually, of no-one in particular: "Is practice over?"

There was a general scramble to find sparring partners and resume training, and soon there were only a handful of watchers, those who had already sparred. Athos flicked his calm gaze over them and in a moment they had all found other matches to watch, were looking for water bottles or had spotted a nick in their swords that urgently needed attention.

Athos nodded to Mathis, who took up position again. Reluctantly d'Artagnan mirrored his stance and the sparring began again. d'Artagnan didn't think he was any better than the first time, but at least he didn't actually fall over. Mathis' sword found his weaknesses time and again, until d'Artagnan was cursing in exasperation. After a few minutes of this Athos stepped forward and both men put up their swords instantly, each feeling relief for different reasons. Mathis had sparred many times with d'Artagnan before and had never seen him fight as badly, which was unnerving, and d'Artagnan just wanted to disappear somewhere away from the watching eyes.

Athos looked at d'Artagnan, who found he couldn't meet his mentor's gaze. He felt like a complete failure. Athos had been nothing but kind and caring, sending him away to Paris to recuperate and making it clear he would have as much time as he needed to recover, but he was a soldier – a Musketeer. The regiment needed him and he would be useless in a fight if he couldn't even spar! Worse than useless – a liability. He –

Athos' hand on his shoulder interrupted the dark spiral of his thoughts. "Have you had much time to practice your forms?"

d'Artagnan looked up in spite of himself, and saw nothing but understanding in the calm greeny-blue eyes. He swallowed. "Only... only in the last few days before I returned."

Athos nodded as if he'd expected as much. "And not on the journey back here. No wonder you are finding it hard." He paused, tipping his head slightly on one side, a half smile crinkling his eyes. "With me?"

d'Artagnan blinked. Athos did his exercises daily, he knew – he'd seen him many times in the early dawn, behind his tent – but never with the other men. Captaincy carried its own conventions and particularly here in the combined army it was frowned upon by the other officers if any of them were too familiar with their men. Athos had never had any trouble maintaining discipline, but he'd had to change his leadership style to fit with the more rigid formality of the regular French army. It was unusual for him even to observe training, let alone join in.

Athos didn't seem to expect an answer but took up position next to d'Artagnan, settling into the first stance, regulating his breathing, then waited.

After a moment's hesitation d'Artagnan mirrored his position, spreading his feet and settling his weight over his knees, then raised his rapier ready. On his other side he was aware of Mathis doing the same, but there was no further time for thought as Athos began the first movements.

At first d'Artagnan struggled to keep up, feeling his muscles stretch on the deepest lunges and his newly-healed scars pulling on his arms, chest and back. When he'd done the exercises on his own, in the privacy of the yard behind Le Cochon Volant Inn in Paris, he hadn't pushed himself too far, wary of damaging his newly healed skin. Here he was aware of all the eyes watching, and found himself trying harder, pushing deeper into the lunges, whipping his blade faster through the air.

By the time they finished the final form, d'Artagnan was sweating properly – not fear sweat now but honest hard work sweat. As he straightened and looked up, he was surprised to find that every single one of the Musketeers – including Porthos – had joined them, forming disciplined ranks and all now straightening from the last figures. To his right, Athos was also looking up and down the lines, another smile teasing his lips. Nodding quietly to himself, he stepped out of the line and faced his men. "Never neglect your forms. They are just as important as sparring practice or a sharp blade. Let's go again."

This time he watched them, occasionally walking up to someone and correcting their feet placement, or offering a word of advice or critique. As he passed behind d'Artagnan he simply said 'better', and d'Artagnan found himself grinning.

Once they'd completed the rotation a second time, Athos called for a water break and chatted briefly with Porthos before wandering off again. d'Artagnan sat in the shade of a tree, drinking the chilled water gratefully and vowing never to get this unfit again.

The rest of training went smoothly. d'Artagnan managed a creditable bout against Francois before Porthos told him to he'd done enough for his first session, and sent him for an early noon meal.

* * *

At that morning's muster Athos had assigned d'Artagnan to horse duty in the afternoon. Athos knew d'Artagnan was not only an excellent horseman but also found it restful to spend time with them, especially after he'd been rescued and before he'd been sent back to Paris to recuperate.

Assigning him this particular duty on his first full day back was Athos' way of looking after him, and d'Artagnan was extremely grateful. He had found the morning tiring and the mealtime stressful as he'd stiffened after the morning's exertions; he was trying to be positive but couldn't help mentally questioning his place in the regiment.

He was soon joined by Fouchard, and he wondered if it was coincidence or whether Athos was making sure to pair him with people he felt comfortable with.

For a while the pair worked in easy silence, grooming each horse thoroughly and examining them for any cuts, bruising or muscle strains. Fouchard was less experienced with horses and occasionally asked d'Artagnan's advice on a cracked hoof or tender swelling, and after an hour or two d'Artagnan was beginning to feel almost normal. Until Fouchard asked him what it was like to be captured.

d'Artagnan immediately felt panic rising as he tried to come up with an answer. He didn't want to think about his time in Spanish hands, let alone talk about it, but he couldn't lie either – not when Fouchard was looking at him with wide eyes, clearly anxious to hear his answer.

d'Artagnan knew the thought of being captured preyed on many of the regiment's minds, especially since his patrol – of which he'd been the only survivor – had disappeared several months ago. He knew Fouchard was looking for reassurance – but he couldn't give it.

Seconds passed as d'Artagnan remained frozen, discarding one answer after another. Eventually he realised that after such a long pause no answer could be convincing. He resolved to try honesty, but it was painfully hard to speak. "I... I... I'm so-sorry," he blurted out. "I... I j-just ... c-c-can't t-talk about it."

Without looking at Fouchard, d'Artagnan gathered up an armful of horse blankets and saddle cloths, muttering that they were filthy, and shot off down the path to the river.

* * *

When Athos checked on the horse lines a short while later he was surprised to find Fouchard working alone. He stopped alongside the young Musketeer, who was currently inspecting the stitching on each bridle to see if any needed repairing. "Where's d'Artagnan?"

Fouchard jumped and dropped the bridle, stammering an apology as Athos stooped to pick it up.

"What happened?" he pressed quietly, hanging the bridle on the nearest tree.

"Oh... it was my fault. I asked him to tell me about when he was captured... I didn't mean to upset him but he – have you ever heard him stammer?"

Athos blinked. "Stammer?"

"Yes! He didn't answer for ages and then he couldn't get his words out. He looked so – distressed."

"Where is he?"

"He went to the river with the horse blankets. I wasn't sure if I should go after him. Captain, I'm so sorry..." He trailed off, looking miserable.

Athos took pity on him. "He'll have needed a moment to himself. I'll see how he's getting on."

At the river he found d'Artagnan on his knees on a patch of gravel, scrubbing vigorously at the last of the saddle cloths, and a row of around 20 sodden blankets drying on trees and bushes. Athos paused, reluctant to startle him, until d'Artagnan looked up, perhaps sensing his presence, then carried on scrubbing. "These blankets were filthy. No wonder we've got horses with saddle-sores and –"

"You're right. I will ensure they get washed more often," Athos agreed placidly.

d'Artagnan rinsed the last cloth out and shook it before rising and spread it out to dry with the others. Then he turned to face Athos and sighed. "I suppose Fouchard told you?"

Athos nodded, waiting.

"I just – I c-can't... it's hard for me to t-talk about what ha-happened, Athos."

Athos cocked his head on one side, wondering if d'Artagnan had any idea that he was stammering and whether he should ask about it. The next second he had his answer.

"Dammit! I c-can't even speak ... _merde_!" d'Artagnan kicked viciously at a clump of reeds.

Athos hesitated, then started to strip off his doublet, then his shirt. When he saw he'd got d'Artagnan's attention he told him: "You haven't swum since you got back, and I'm sweaty – keep me company?"

d'Artagnan just looked at him, knowing full well what his Captain was doing, not knowing whether to be offended or touched by the gesture, but Athos simply went on undressing methodically and in the end d'Artagnan gave up thinking and simply followed suit. Athos waited, impassively, trying not to look too obviously at the Gascon's body. This was the first time he'd seen him unclothed since dragging him from the hell-hole they'd found him in.

d'Artagnan was still much too thin, but no longer looked like a skeleton draped in someone else's skin. The sword wound curling across his back, sustained in that terrifying battle far too soon after they'd rescued him, was still a vivid pink colour but it was clearly healing well, as were the other smaller wounds marring the skin around his back and sides. His fingers were scarred where – they guessed – he'd tried to claw his way out of his underground prison but the cuts had scabbed over and mostly healed well. However his forearms were still wrapped in bandages from the elbow to the wrist.

Athos frowned. He'd seen those wounds too, when Etienne first treated him: a mass of intersecting cuts, deep enough to need stitches, clearly made by a knife. Deliberately. A muscle in his jaw twitched as he watched d'Artagnan fold his clothes and turn towards the river. Those cuts should be healing as well as the ones on the lad's back, so why were they still covered? Vowing to get Etienne to check him over at the first opportunity, Athos picked his way across the gravel and followed d'Artagnan into the fast-flowing river.

Ooof! Athos couldn't help but gasp at the icy temperature as the water reached his thighs. d'Artagnan was already in and swimming. Dammit! He took a breath and dived under the water, shooting straight back up to grab a shocked breath as the cold seized his lungs. The current was strong and for a moment he regretted his impulse, but it was way too late to back out, and he was already chilled to the bone, so he ducked under the water again and began a steady crawl, trying to catch up to d'Artagnan who had already turned at the far bank and was making his way back, his expression set as he worked his way against the current with a strong, regular stroke.

Two widths later they were both panting with the effort of working against the current to avoid being swept too far from their entry point, but Athos felt considerably warmer and d'Artagnan was looking calmer. After five minutes Athos decided he'd had enough and battled his way back to the slope where he could haul himself out and flop, puffing more than he'd like, on the gravel bank, shivering as he watched d'Artagnan power backwards and forwards across the river for another few minutes before he finally joined Athos on the bank.

There was a long companionable silence as both men slowly warmed up in the pale autumn sun. Athos particularly was enjoying the rare moment of relaxation. Eventually he said lazily: "It's years since I swam in a river. Actually, I haven't done it since I was a child. It's good exercise... and I can see why you find it helpful." He cranked open one eye and checked d'Artagnan's reaction, relieved to see the Gascon smiling his agreement.

"It's ... I find it calming."

"And cold."

d'Artagnan laughed, a sound Athos didn't realise he'd missed until he heard it. For the hundredth time he wondered what, in d'Artagnan's captivity, had rendered him so broken in spirit that he had barely raised a smile since he returned, and couldn't speak of his experiences. He wished he could help the young Gascon more but knew better than to force him to speak. If he could just keep the lad safe until he felt comfortable enough to trust them with the details...

"I don't notice it any more... Athos, thank you."

"For?"

"You know. Being here with me now, when you have a whole regiment of men to look after."

Athos wished he could convince d'Artagnan of his importance – not just to him, but to the whole unit. Somehow he'd become a bit of a mascot to the regiment, with his youthful enthusiasm and complete lack of vanity. "I was sweaty and needed cooling down. I should do it more often. In fact I might introduce it as a compulsory warm up before training."

d'Artagnan snorted at the thought of Athos telling the Musketeers – many of whom had never learned to swim – to climb voluntarily into the icy river every morning. "I'm sorry I can't talk about what ha-happened." He stopped in frustration as the stammer threatened to show itself again.

"What stops you?" Athos was careful to sound only mildly interested as he sat up and idly tossed a pebble into the water.

d'Artagnan sat up as well, wrapping his arms around his legs and resting his chin on his bare knees. "I don't know exactly. It's as if my brain is stopping me from t-talking about it now I'm back. Maybe ... I think it's j-just b-b-better if I d-don't think about it h-here. It's just too c-cl-close to reality."

Athos nodded, considering. "That makes sense."

"It does?" d'Artagnan sounded almost surprised.

"Mm. I have heard before of the barriers the mind can erect, as a way of protection." He paused, looking at the strain on d'Artagnan's face as he tried to compose himself. "You talked about everything to the doctor in Paris, didn't you? So I suggest we draw a line under everything and move on. If you want to talk at any time you know we will listen." A shaky nod from d'Artagnan. "If you could stop worrying about being asked, would that help?"

"Yes!"

Athos nodded. "I'll have a word with a few of the men." d'Artagnan looked as if he wanted to hug Athos, but remembered himself just in time and converted his movement into an ungainly lurch to his feet instead. Athos' mouth twitched as he too rose and they dressed, gathered up the blankets and headed back to camp.

* * *

Over the next few days d'Artagnan began to settle back into life in camp. The regiment had been at pains to make him feel welcome, bantering with him by day and encouraging him to join them around the camp fire in the evenings, and he'd started to feel that maybe, just maybe, he could do this. If he could _pretend_ hard enough that he was the d'Artagnan of before, then maybe he could _be_ that d'Artagnan again.

He'd been fortunate to return during a brief period of calm on the battlefront. There was a massive Spanish encampment around two leagues away, and although both sides were aware of the other, neither seemed overly keen to engage when such huge numbers of men were involved. An all-out battle would leave hundreds, maybe even tens of hundreds dead on both sides. So instead the commanding officers on both sides were engaged in something like a game of chess, as they each manoeuvred their forces, reinforcing one camp or another, hoping to spook their opposite number into retreating or ordering a move that would leave them exposed in another area.

This lull was giving d'Artagnan the time he desperately needed to rebuild his strength and fitness. Each time he ate a meal in the mess-room, or completed his exercises without feeling he would black out, was a real achievement. Athos had banned him from sparring until he could complete eight consecutive repetitions of the swordsman forms without stopping. Since each set of exercises took around five minutes, this was a challenge that few Musketeers would contemplate, although d'Artagnan had done it daily whilst training under Athos' supervision when he first joined the regiment.

After four days of exercises, combined with daily swims in the river and plenty of work around the camp, d'Artagnan was a lot fitter and Athos finally gave him the nod to begin sparring again. Guérin, the fair-haired musketeer who had been there when they'd found him in the Spanish _oubliette_ , and who had taken d'Artagnan under his wing when he returned from Paris, was quick to pair up with him, and the two settled into their stances with a feeling of familiar anticipation.

He didn't overstretch himself, this time. Although aware of a few people watching, he was content to make good, steady strokes, but nothing fancy: it was enough just to be sparring. Guérin seemed to recognise what he needed, and for a long while the two men worked hard, playing to each others' strengths, the old familiar patterns of steel whistling through the air helping to settle d'Artagnan to a state of calm intensity that he hadn't felt for weeks.

Then a yelp of pain from a pair to his right snagged his attention, just as he swept his sword round to parry a strong stroke from Guérin. His tiny falter meant he mis-timed his defence, and instead of sword meeting sword, Guérin's blade bit into his leather-clad forearm.

Pain shot up his arm and his sword dropped from nerveless fingers, clattering to the hard ground as he doubled over, clapping his left hand to his right arm and hugging it to him.

" _Merde_! d'Artagnan, I'm sorry, did I get you?" Guérin dropped his own blade carelessly to the ground and grabbed at d'Artagnan's shoulder, pushing him upright so he could look.

"It's fine. No harm done." d'Artagnan tried to keep his voice steady, without much success. He cast a wary eye around, finding – to his relief – most eyes were on one of the newer recruits who was lying on the ground, blood seeping from a nick on his cheek, while his sparring partner tried to mop it with a handkerchief. He looked back at Guérin, seeing only concern and chagrin in his friend's eyes.

"Honestly, it's fine. Just give me a minute, will you?" He stooped to pick up his sword, then cursed as he realised two things: his fingers were still numb; and blood was oozing out from under his shirt cuff.

"Oh, _morbleu_! Dammit, I've cut you – d'Artagnan, I'm so sorry!" Guérin turned as if to call out for help but stopped as d'Artagnan's left hand shot out and grabbed his arm.

"Don't! Please... I'll just wash it off. It's nothing. _Please_!" he added, seeing Guérin hesitate. "I don't want a fuss!"

He managed to grab hold of his sword at the third attempt, and fixed Guérin with a look of desperate intensity.

Guérin sighed. "Alright, but I'm coming with you and if it needs stitches I'm getting a medic. No arguments!"

d'Artagnan turned and headed quickly away from the sparring area before anyone else noticed that he was bleeding, and thanking the Lord that neither Athos or Porthos was around for they would not have been fooled.

Guérin gathered a bucket of fresh water and followed d'Artagnan into his tent. The Gascon had already shed his leather and was rolling up his sleeve as Guérin entered. Underneath, he was surprised to see a bandage protecting d'Artagnan's forearm – now stained bright red with fresh blood.

"Are the cuts not healed yet?" he asked. He remembered only too well how badly hurt the Musketeer had been when they pulled him out of the _oubliette_ in which he'd been left to die.

d'Artagnan sat, slowly unwinding the bandage, his jaw clenched. "They were healed. The blade must have just – damn," he finished, softly. As he peeled away the last turn of bandage, they could both see the wound across his forearm. Guérin crouched in front of him to get a better look.

"It's not a new cut," he noted, puzzled.

"No. It's one of the... old ones. I think the force of the blow split the skin – opened up the scar." d'Artagnan was staring at his arm with an odd expression, thought Guérin – somewhere between horror and fascination.

"Is that why you keep them covered then – to protect the skin?" Guérin could see d'Artagnan's left arm was similarly bandaged.

"Yes. Ara – um ... I was told the skin would be fragile for a while. And besides – " He faltered again, and stopped. Guérin pulled off his neck scarf, wetted it in the bucket and began cleaning the wound. "Besides?" he prompted, turning d'Artagnan's hand so the light fell better on the arm.

"I can't b-bear to look at them." It was nothing but a whisper of air, hiding a chasm of emotion.

"Why not? They're just scars, same as any other."

There was a long pause, then finally d'Artagnan admitted quietly: "Whenever I see them – I see the knife that made them, and the hand that held it..."

Guérin stopped cleaning the wound and looked up, seeing something like grief, and dread, etched on the Gascon's face. "Oh, d'Artagnan!" He felt helpless, not knowing what to say.

d'Artagnan grimaced and looked away from his friend's scrutiny. "Sorry. I shouldn't have... It's fine. Does it need stitching?"

Guérin blinked, shook himself, and answered mechanically as he wrapped his scarf around the wound to hold the bleeding. It _would_ need stitching, if only to hold it together against the constant movement and aggravation from the leathers they had to wear to protect themselves.

d'Artagnan drew in a long, ragged breath then sighed as he accepted the inevitable. More time off, more fuss. More questions. He stood, thanking Guérin and pulled his shirt down over wound and scarf.

"Wait! I'm coming with you."

"You don't – "

"I _want_ to. Anything to get out of sparring, eh?"

It was Etienne on duty, but to d'Artagnan's surprise he didn't ask any questions, merely looked long and hard at the new wound, then un-bandaged the other arm so he could compare the scars. Guérin noticed that d'Artagnan kept his gaze averted whenever he could.

It didn't take Etienne long to put a few stitches into the wound and bandage it firmly. As d'Artagnan rose to leave, Etienne handed him a pot of salve to rub into the scar to help it heal, and told him to come daily to have it checked. He paused then, cocking his head on one side. "No sparring until I say so, young man. Those scars are still fragile." It was an order, not a suggestion, and d'Artagnan nodded meekly before escaping out into the weak sunlight with a sense of relief.

* * *

The next morning Guérin was waiting outside d'Artagnan's tent when Porthos emerged. Guérin had gone straight to Porthos after leaving d'Artagnan in his tent to recuperate, the day before, and explained what had happened. Porthos had not been overly concerned: accidents happened daily in sparring, and by the time they'd met over the evening meal d'Artagnan had been upbeat and managing to joke about his lack of practice.

"How's d'Artagnan this morning?" asked Guérin.

"Yeah, he's okay. Think the arm's more sore than he admits." Porthos said the last part more loudly than necessary, knowing d'Artagnan would be able to hear him through the thin canvas. Sure enough there was a loud snort from within.

Grinning, Guérin pushed his way in and found d'Artagnan unwrapping the bandage from his right arm. "Hey, let me help."

d'Artagnan couldn't be bothered to protest until the bandage was off, when he saw Guérin reaching for the pot of salve Etienne had given him to rub in. "I'll do that!" He tried to take the salve but Guérin held it firmly out of reach. "What are you doing?"

"I'm giving you some new memories."

d'Artagnan just stared at him.

Guérin smiled, taking d'Artagnan's wrist and turning his arm so it lay across the Gascon's knees. "You said whenever you see the scars you see the knife that made them. So I decided we need to give you something else to see. My hands – or Porthos', whoever you want, but _friends_ ' hands, helping your skin to heal."

As he spoke, he scooped a dollop of salve from the pot and began to smooth it along the lines of the scars either side of the newly stitched wound. He could feel d'Artagnan's muscles tensing under his fingers, but kept working the ointment gently into the skin, trying to keep his movements regular and calming, and after a while it seemed to work. d'Artagnan's breathing steadied and he let out a sigh, so Guérin dared to look up.

d'Artagnan's eyes were fixed on Guérin's fingers as they traced along the lines of the scars. His eyes were pinched, his expression unreadable, but he didn't shift his gaze even when Porthos re-entered the tent, bringing in a gust of damp air. He plonked onto his bed and sat quietly watching as Guérin finished by dabbing a tiny amount of salve gently along the new line of stitches, leaving the ointment to sink in, then re-bandaged the arm with the nimble hands of a practiced soldier, and started to unwrap the bandages on the other arm to work on those scars.

Eventually he finished and d'Artagnan stirred. "I'm not sure Etienne's going to be too pleased when he realises you've used half the salve already."

Guérin laughed and stood up, handing the salve to Porthos. "Don't take no for an answer," he told the lieutenant bossily. "We're making new memories." He pushed out of the tent and Porthos blinked after him, then looked back to d'Artagnan as he pulled his shirt sleeves down.

Squinting at him in the gloomy tent interior, Porthos could see raw emotion in the lad's face, his jaw working as he swallowed. He wasn't totally sure what was happening, or what to do, but then he shrugged and did what he always did – led with his heart. Crossing to sit next to d'Artagnan he wrapped an arm firmly around the Gascon's shoulders and pulled him close, feeling optimistic. In spite of the set-back of his new wound, d'Artagnan seemed to be easier around the other Musketeers now and he was sure it wouldn't be long before he felt fully part of the regiment again.

But then a crisis threatened the camp; and with it came a new threat to d'Artagnan's fragile confidence.

* * *

A/N: thanks to everyone for your reviews, follows and favourites! I really appreciate your comments and support for this story. You've probably worked out by now that it's d'Artagnan-centric (as if I'd write anything else!) as he struggles to come to terms with the events we learned of in Battlescars Part 2. But both Porthos and Athos have plenty of moments, I promise, and Aramis is always in their thoughts even if he's not present for most of this one. Hope you enjoy x


	4. Misery

_Thank you for all your lovely reviews and encouragement - they are much appreciated! I love to hear your thoughts , and I was very happy that each of you seemed to enjoy a different aspect of the last chapter. d'Artagnan's trying to settle back into camp life but soon he's distracted by a different problem._

 **Chapter Three: Misery**

d'Artagnan was on his first patrol since being captured. When Athos had named him for a routine patrol at that morning's muster, he'd felt a familiar wave of panic creep over him until Athos detailed those he was to patrol with – Fouchard, Guérin and Porthos – and he'd realised that Athos was supporting him yet again by sending him out with people he trusted and enjoyed working with. Athos had met his eyes at the end of muster and given him a nod of encouragement, and d'Artagnan had felt like a young recruit again, remembering the feeling of desperately wanting to please Athos and get that nod. He grinned wryly at himself. He'd come a long way since then, but sometimes he still felt like that wide-eyed 18 year old farm-boy.

It was an early afternoon patrol – another indication of Athos' thoughtfulness. He'd been captured on an evening patrol when the shadows were lengthening, so going out into the tranquil postprandial countryside would feel different.

They mounted up with the usual mixture of chatter and grumbling, and rode out in pairs, with d'Artagnan at the back alongside Porthos, feeling apprehension churning in his gut. Winding their way through the centre of camp towards the guards at the entrance he noticed a number of men looking their way, and caught smiles and waves from many of them as they noticed him. Porthos suddenly leaned over and nudged him. "Everyone's behind you, lad." d'Artagnan nodded, feeling heart-warmed.

He'd been out of camp since being captured, of course, but mostly only to the nearest lake or river, apart from that one disastrous battle which had led to Athos sending him back to Paris to recuperate properly. Then, he'd ridden north in a daze of exhaustion, emotionally shut-down. Now he was riding voluntarily towards the Spanish forces, fully aware that he was heading towards possible danger.

He scanned his surroundings constantly. In fact he literally could not stop looking: as soon as he returned his gaze forwards to the track they were following, the back of his neck would prickle and he would whip his head around again to check behind, above, below, to the side, forwards again... no, something might be there: check behind! After half an hour of this he was feeling dizzy but still couldn't stop himself from doing it.

Eventually Porthos' voice startled him out of his panic. "You're gonna dislocate your bloody neck if you keep doin' that!"

d'Artagnan puffed out a shaky breath and rubbed his hand over his face. He was already sweating in the gentle sun. He gave Porthos a rueful smile, and tried to resist the urge to check behind them again.

"Use your ears, not your 'ead."

"I _can't._ " It was almost a wail. "I didn't hear anything, before. We were riding along a trail just like this one, I was at the back with Patrice and they just appeared from all around, firing on us. We didn't _see_ them, didn't _hear_ anything until it was too late!"

Porthos was silent. It was the first time d'Artagnan had said anything about the patrol and how they'd been captured. He found himself scanning their surroundings a bit more carefully after that, but it made his own head ache. He couldn't imagine how d'Artagnan was feeling with his head constantly revolving: it was making him feel queasy just watching him.

They reached their goal, a gap in the hills from where they could safely survey the main Spanish encampment. d'Artagnan dismounted with mixed feelings - relief at having got off the track without incident, and trepidation at the thought of being on the ground so close to the Spanish troops.

They belly-crawled to the top of the rise and stared down into the camp half a mile or so away in a large valley. They used scopes to check the number of command tents and field cannon and to estimate the number of troops, comparing their findings with the maps drawn by other patrols on previous days.

After 20 minutes of observation Porthos was satisfied that there were few, if any, changes from the previous day's observations and he gave the signal to move out. Once they'd crawled clear of the skyline, they stood up and returned to their horses.

Guérin disappeared behind the nearest bush while the others mounted up, assuming he was taking a leak, but then they all heard the unmistakeable sound of someone throwing up.

He emerged to find the others mounted but looking at him with concern. "Must be something I ate," he muttered, slightly embarrassed, taking his reins from d'Artagnan and mounting quickly. "I'll be fine."

"My stomach's playing up a bit," confided Porthos, patting his belly with a slight wince.

"You probably just ate too much," d'Artagnan teased him, feeling light-headed with relief that he'd managed his first patrol without making a complete fool of himself.

"He did have three helpings at lunchtime," added Fouchard, pretending to duck as Porthos glared at him.

"I'm a growing lad!"

"Yes, growing outwards..." d'Artagnan had to spur Nuit suddenly forward to avoid the swipe from Porthos that would have knocked him from the saddle if it had connected.

As the others joined him in a steady canter homewards, he suddenly realised he'd forgotten to feel nervous.

By the time they reached the hill overlooking their encampment however, he'd forgotten all about nerves in favour of concern. All three of his colleagues had vomited at least once on the way back, and all were looking uncomfortable and sweaty. d'Artagnan himself felt slightly queasy but not nauseous. Was it a bug? Or indeed something they'd eaten...

They were greeted at the gates by a distinctly white-faced guard, Nathaniel.

"Why are you on your own?" asked Porthos sharply, looking around for the second guard. So close to the Spanish force, all guard duty and perimeter patrolling was done in pairs.

"Fabien wasn't feeling well so I sent him to get a replacement. Don't know what's taking him so bloody long."

"Are you feeling okay?" d'Artagnan could see the sheen of sweat on the man's face.

"Bit queasy," he admitted.

d'Artagnan looked at Porthos but realised the Lieutenant was struggling to control his own stomach, swallowing repeatedly, and without even thinking, he found himself taking charge.

"Porthos, go and lie down. I'll find Athos and sort out a replacement guard."

It was a measure of how ill Porthos felt that he didn't even protest as d'Artagnan reached over to take his reins. Dismounting with relief, he felt a sudden stomach cramp and doubled over for a moment, wrapping an arm around his stomach.

"Go on!" d'Artagnan urged him. Porthos nodded, not even raising his head to thank d'Artagnan as he turned and stumbled slowly off in the direction of his tent before suddenly changing direction and veering towards the latrines.

d'Artagnan firmly sent Guérin and Fouchard off as well, before either of them could throw up again. Left with all four horses as the others trudged after Porthos, d'Artagnan headed for the horse lines but didn't stop to tend to them as he usually would, simply whipping their saddles off and tethering them all quickly. Looking around for the duty groom, he was surprised to realise no one was around. Muttering to himself – there were several other horses there which hadn't even been unsaddled, an unforgiveable sin in his book – he headed quickly towards Athos' tent.

Pushing aside the flap he stopped just inside, hearing a groan. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness he saw Athos sitting on the side of his cot, head down, his unruly hair concealing his face.

"Athos?"

Athos raised his head and looked blearily at d'Artagnan through tangled curls. "I'm ill. Unless the Spanish are sitting in our mess tent drinking the last bottle of wine, I don't want to know." The words were whispered slowly, with great effort.

d'Artagnan's face creased in sympathy and he hurried over, plucking up Athos' water bottle en route and plonking down next to him on the bed. Only then did he realise Athos was holding a wooden bucket between his knees, which had clearly been in much use recently.

"Here, have some water." Athos took the bottle gratefully and gulped down some of the cool water, before shoving the bottle quickly back towards d'Artagnan and bending over the bucket again. With barely a retch, d'Artagnan heard the liquid splashing straight back out of Athos' mouth, followed by another groan.

"Oh, Athos!" Feeling completely helpless, d'Artagnan rubbed Athos' back until it was over, then handed him his own handkerchief to wipe his mouth. "How long has this been going on?"

"An hour, maybe," Athos mumbled. "Never felt so ill..."

d'Artagnan made a decision not to tell him just yet that others were ill, knowing he would insist on getting up if he knew. "You lie back. I'll get you a clean bucket and find Etienne. Don't worry about a thing." He persuaded Athos to lie back on his pillow and snatched up the bucket, trying not to retch himself at the stench coming from the offensive contents.

He carried it at arms' length towards the latrines, intending to dump the contents and swill it out, but his steps slowed as he neared, seeing men everywhere doubled over, vomiting into the trenches or behind the tents. Some were being held upright or helped along by comrades who looked little better off than those they were assisting. He realised he was stepping over patches of vomit as he walked. What the hell was happening?

He tipped the contents of the bucket into the nearest trench and hurried back towards the centre of camp where a well had been sunk, always one of the first jobs in any new camp. Normally there was a line of filled buckets there ready to be used for washing and cooking, but now only a couple remained. He rinsed Athos' bucket out, quickly filled another with clean water and jogged back to Athos' tent with both buckets, finding Athos still lying on his back, wheezing with every painful breath. With a reassuring pat on his shoulder d'Artagnan raced off to the medic's tent, thinking he must check on Porthos as soon as he'd talked to Etienne... _Sacrebleu_!

He stopped dead just inside the medic's tent, the largest in the Musketeer's camp after the mess tent. Normally it held nine or ten cots and, except after a major battle, there were rarely more than one or two patients recovering from injuries or illness. Now it was groaning at the seams – and literally, for it was full of men doubled up in pain, arms wrapped around their stomachs, the sounds of retching all around. There was no sign of either Etienne, their notoriously grumpy medic, or Julien, his assistant. All the cots were full and more men were sitting or lying on the bare earth. And everywhere hung the sour smell of vomit.

His mind reeling and his own stomach roiling, d'Artagnan picked his way with care towards the back of the tent where the workbenches and supplies were kept. Etienne normally slept at the back on a cot behind a curtain, so d'Artagnan was half hoping, half dreading he would find him there. Pulling the curtain to one side he found, to his dismay but not his surprise, Etienne lying on his cot, one arm around his stomach and the other across his eyes, adding his own groan to the general chorus of misery in the tent. Behind his cot, Julien stood frantically grinding herbs in his pestle.

"d'Artagnan! Thank goodness, we need some help in here!"

"I can see that... what's going on?"

"We think it's food poisoning. It started a couple of hours ago but almost everyone seems to be ill now. Etienne checked the stew when we got the first cases and reckons it was that. He ordered Chonfleur to burn the rest of the beef – Chonfleur nearly had a heart attack at the thought – but it _stank_ , d'Artagnan. It has to be that."

d'Artagnan snorted at the thought of their burly cook, Chonfleur, being told to burn his supplies. Speaking of which, they'd been waiting for the supply wagon for several days. No wonder the beef had gone off; the last delivery of food had been more than a week ago.

He himself was still cautious about eating meat: the smell of raw meat too often jerked his mind straight back to memories from his captivity. When they had fresh supplies, Chonfleur would make a vegetable stew for him and anyone else who couldn't stomach meat – such as Julien, a gentle soul who always refused to eat animal flesh. It was all making sense now! He'd only eaten bread, and a little hard cheese, at lunchtime today. His own queasiness must be just reaction to seeing everyone else vomiting rather than a warning of illness to come, as he'd feared.

Feeling happier now he understood what was happening, he watched Julien spooning a little of his concoction into Etienne's mouth. "What's that?"

"Ginger tea – it should help settle the stomach, although to be honest nothing's going to stop them throwing up until their bodies have got rid of all the poisonous meat and toxins."

"What can I do?"

Julien sighed, running a hand over his tousled hair in despair. "There's not much any of us can do! Just wait, and hope everyone is strong enough to survive."

"Survive?" d'Artagnan felt a chill run through him. "Surely this isn't fatal?"

"It can be, if you are already weak. It's hard to keep water down when your body is rejecting everything so violently, but dehydration itself is dangerous – as you know."

d'Artagnan blanched, remembering how close to death he'd been when Athos and Porthos had rescued him from the Spanish hillfort. "Right..." He hesitated, his mind racing. "I'll see if I can find you some help."

Julien nodded his thanks as they both went out to the main tent, Julien to administer his herbal potion and d'Artagnan heading gratefully for the fresher air and sunlight outside.

Sunlight that was rapidly fading, he realised as he emerged. He stopped, looking around at the Musketeer's area of camp with men staggering slowly around or slumped over buckets here and there. He suddenly wondered whether the other regiments were similarly affected. They all shared the same supplies... Full of adrenaline, he ran up the track leading to the next regiment's camp.

* * *

 _Two hours later_

"Over there!" d'Artagnan pointed to a corner of the mess tent and the pair staggered in, supporting each other, wheeling unsteadily towards the cot he'd indicated. d'Artagnan looked around, hands on hips, seeing that the tent was nearly full already. He sighed, passing a hand across his forehead and grunting a thank you as Dumard passed him a water-skin.

He'd found the other regiments in equal disarray, with not one officer on their feet. Only a few men were unaffected, mostly those who had missed lunch because of guard duty. Dumard told d'Artagnan he'd taken one sniff of the stew that afternoon and refused to eat it, telling Chonfleur the meat was off, but with no alternative and a tent full of ravenous soldiers Chonfleur had gone on serving it with his fingers crossed. d'Artagnan teased that Dumard would find himself on permanent kitchen duty with such a sensitive nose, but the stark reality was that the whole army was in the same situation. Out of nearly a thousand men barely thirty were unaffected.

d'Artagnan had tentatively suggested a couple of them should go to check the guards on all the entry points and relieve any that were ill, and found everyone else immediately turning to him for orders of their own.

No one seemed to have any idea how to deal with this situation and most of the healthy were rushing aimlessly from one friend to the next, trying to support them but not actually making much impression on the general disorder. So he suggested the rest concentrate on getting water to their comrades, and keeping the ground clean by spreading earth over the piles of vomit or flushing it away with water.

He'd started to do the rounds of the Musketeer tents but quickly realised it would be impossible to keep an eye on everyone, scattered as they were around the camp in individual tents. So he'd gathered Dumard and two others, and they'd cleared everything out of the mess tent before helping anyone who could walk to carry their cots into the space, creating an impromptu field hospital.

He'd found the stack of stinking beef behind the mess tent and dragged it, gagging, to the latrine trenches, deciding it would be easier to bury it than try to set fire to it. Retreating as fast as possible he knew another priority would be to fill them in and start new trenches as soon as possible. But there was also a desperate need for clean buckets, drinking water and help for Julien. And someone should check the perimeter. The next patrol should have gone out to check the Spanish movements. The horses were still un-watered ... And in the morning they would have to send men out to try to find the supply wagon which should have arrived today. What rations were left in camp? There might not be much interest in food at the moment, but those who were still on their feet would be ravenous by morning. Where to start?

Before his thoughts could spiral into panic he'd been interrupted by Raimond, a junior army officer from another regiment, whom he'd encountered in the main camp. "Hey, d'Artagnan! Got any spare buckets?"

d'Artagnan grimaced. "I'll have a look." He led Raimond to the mess tent and poked around, but all the buckets were full of either water or vomit. "I'll wash some of these out. We don't need so many now most people are in one space."

Raimond was looking around with interest. "It's a great idea. I can't believe how quickly you've organised this."

d'Artagnan shrugged, heading back to the latrines with the buckets. "It didn't take long. The main need now is to cover these trenches and get some new ones dug."

Raimond nodded, helping him to wash out the sick buckets. "Thanks. I'm going to pinch your idea and clear out our mess tent – it will save loads of time in the long run. But as soon as I can, I'll send some men over to help with the latrines."

d'Artagnan nodded his thanks, already collecting a pick and shovel and heading to a new area of ground to start the first trench.

* * *

By midnight a clean trench had been dug and most of the old one filled in, leaving one end nearest the camp for ongoing use. d'Artagnan insisted that only "regular" deposits were made in the new latrine, and all the sickness and diarrhoea was still deposited in the old trench.

The well was the focus of much activity as water was constantly being drawn and buckets lined up ready for use. d'Artagnan had passed on Julien's worry about dehydration and throughout the camp men were being urged to drink as soon as they could keep it down.

d'Artagnan had dug most of the new trench on his own and was now suffering. The scar tissue on his fingers after his captivity was still pink and tender, and it hadn't been long before he'd developed blisters, which had now burst, leaving him with bloody fingers and weeping skin. He stopped at the well and plunged his hands into a half-bucket of deliciously cool water, relishing the relief to his inflamed skin, then cleaned it and refilled it conscientiously before heading for the medical tent.

Inside he found things just as chaotic as before, and Julien looking exhausted and frazzled. Seeing d'Artagnan he brightened. "What's the news?"

d'Artagnan quickly filled him in on his findings about the numbers affected, and how they were organising themselves. Julien nodding at the idea of using the mess tent as he efficiently cleaned d'Artagnan's hands with alcohol and wrapped them with neat bandages. "Who's looking after them in there?"

"Dumard, at the moment."

"Right. I'll take over some of this tea; it seems to be helping some of them, although others are getting worse and developing fevers."

"I'm sure he'll be glad to see you. I'm going to check on Athos then ride the perimeter and make sure the guards are ok."

"Christ, I hadn't thought of that! What if they're ill too?"

"Most of them were, so we've already sent replacements from the unaffected men, but that was four hours ago and some of them had only recently come off guard duty so I want to make sure they're alright for a bit longer." He didn't know how he could replace them, if they weren't – every able-bodied man was already working flat out to help the afflicted – but he kept that worry to himself.

In Athos' tent he wasn't surprised to find a dark hump huddled on the ground near Athos' cot: Porthos, shivering slightly and hunched over his stomach, rocking back and forth. d'Artagnan crouched beside him, checking his forehead and finding it clammy and sweaty. Porthos groaned at his touch, leaning in to him and resting his aching head on d'Artagnan's night-cool shirt for a moment, until a fresh wave of nausea had him scrabbling for the bucket. d'Artagnan quickly handed him the clean bucket he'd brought with him, then rose to check on Athos, who was similarly hot but was at least dozing.

d'Artagnan dug Athos' spare blanket out of his crate and wrapped it around Porthos' shoulders, leaving him a fresh water bottle and taking the old bucket away to clean. "I'll be back in a bit," he promised as he left. He hated leaving them, but there was too much to do for him to have the luxury of staying with his brothers.

He emptied the bucket with practiced hands and cleaned it out, trying not to think about the smell, and took it into the mess tent. On the way the to horse lines to saddle Nuit he had a sudden thought and detoured to his tent to collect something he hoped might be useful.

At the gate he found Gasnault looking pissed off and no sign of the second guard.

"Are you coming to relieve us?"

d'Artagnan slid off Nuit. "Sorry, no. I was going to ride the perimeter and check on everyone. Are you alright? Where's Faschoux?" Gasnault nodded grimly at the bushes just outside the gate, from where the sound of retching could be heard.

d'Artagnan's heart sank: this was what he'd been dreading. "He was alright earlier, I thought?"

"He was feeling a bit off but he's only just started vomiting. Apparently he had the dregs of the stew when he came off duty this afternoon, before we realised what was causing it."

Damn. "Have you got water?"

"Yes, for now, but – "

"Listen, everyone is either sick, or working flat out to look after the sick. I can swop you around but I don't think anyone will be getting any rest tonight."

Gasnault looked deflated. "I'm alright for a bit longer but I'm worried I'll fall asleep."

The sound of violent retching interrupted him and they both looked at the bushes, then d'Artagnan sighed. "Not much chance of that."

Gasnault looked horrified. "Are you leaving him here?"

d'Artagnan grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's either that or stick him in a tent on his own. He'll be better off here with you keeping an eye on him. I'll be back in a couple of hours," and he vaulted onto Nuit's back and headed off before Gasnault could raise any objections.

Everything seemed calm around the perimeter, and although he couldn't relieve any of the guards, at least he was able to reassure everyone that they hadn't been forgotten. Promising them relief after morning muster at 8am, by which time he hoped some of the earliest afflicted men would have recovered, he turned Nuit away from camp and up the track he'd taken some ten hours earlier on patrol.

He was aware of his breathing quickening as he got further into the dark countryside. His tension transmitted itself to Nuit who started to jump sideways at every rustling leaf and snort at every shadow, sidling past suspiciously then trying to break into a canter. In the end d'Artagnan let her have her head, no more keen than she was to be out here alone in the middle of the night. Heading _towards_ the Spanish camp. On his own.

After a few minutes of fast, and mostly sideways, canter involving much tail swishing and dramatic snorting, she settled a bit and he was able to bring her back to a steady, ground-covering trot. Just as earlier that afternoon, d'Artagnan's eyes were everywhere and he kept his pistol in his hand, only too aware that the Spanish might have their own patrols out on this clear half-moon night.

By the time he reached the hillside observation point they'd used earlier, his nerves were stretched to breaking point and he was sweating heavily. He felt like a complete mess but he couldn't help his body's reaction: he was just glad no one was there to witness his nervousness. Terror, if he were honest. He slid out of the saddle on trembling legs and dropped to the ground thankfully, wishing he could just stay there, safely hugging the ground out of sight of the Spanish army.

He suddenly thought about the last time he'd looked down on a Spanish camp on his own by night – when Porthos had been injured and he'd had to travel miles back to the Musketeer camp, only to find a Spanish force gathering in the night to attack the Musketeers*. Then, he'd ended up walking through the camp unobserved – until the last minute – but now he couldn't imagine going one inch closer than this. A wave of sadness passed over him at the contrast. He'd been so confident back then. He laughed bitterly. "Back then!" It had only been a few months ago – but that was before he'd been captured. Now he was just a gibbering mess, cowering on the ground, too frightened to look in case he was caught again.

Three times he willed himself to move and three times he failed, just like as a child when he was dithering on the banks of the icy river which ran through their farm. How had he done it then? Usually by shouting a war cry and jumping in feet first – or being pushed in by his father. Neither of which was an option now. Taking a deep breath he thought of Porthos, Athos and all the others waiting at camp, and finally forced himself onto elbows and toes to crawl forward to the ridge.

Below him all seemed still. A few camp fires flickered, and he could hear one of the guards laughing near the main entrance away to his left. Sound carried far in the still air.

 _Merde_! He was suddenly struck by the difference between the two camps. The Spanish settlement murmured with quiet purpose and organisation; the French camp was chaotic by contrast, with the sounds of groaning and men calling for water surely audible for some distance. And their fires! No one had tended them this evening and they would likely be out by now. If any Spanish patrol were looking down from a distance, unseen by the perimeter guards, they would very quickly realise there was something seriously wrong in the French camp, which made them horribly vulnerable to attack.

Flooded with a new sense of urgency he crawled back towards Nuit and remounted, forcing himself to keep to a walk until they were well out of earshot. Then he pushed Nuit into a fast canter that ate up the distance until within sight of the French camp, where he pulled up and hopped off to listen, trying to view it through a stranger's eyes.

Just as he thought, it would surely be obvious to an onlooker that this was not a well camp. Without the background hum of voices, the crackling of fires or the steady steps of patrolling guards, the sounds of sickness travelled clearly to his ears. He would have to do something about that as soon as he got back.

First however, he took out the items he'd gathered from his tent before setting out: his catapult, a purse containing small round pebbles which he collected wherever he went, and some wire snares. Working quickly, he set the snares on animal trails around the large patch of brambles he'd seen earlier that afternoon teeming with rabbits. Aware of the pre-dawn light changing, he allowed himself ten minutes lying on the bare ground behind the briars, catapult at the ready, and was quickly rewarded as rabbits began to emerge from their holes. It didn't take him long to bag half a dozen rabbits which – with a few root vegetables and some bread to mop it up – would hopefully feed those who could stomach food, especially if he could get back up here to check the snares in a few hours.

Rising to his feet he quickly tied the limp bodies to his saddle and was just about to remount when he heard a sound that made his blood run cold. Low voices, far too close – and talking not French but Spanish.

* * *

 _* That story was told in "Luck Will Travel"_


	5. Hope is Strong

_Thanks as always for your comments and follows etc; hope I didn't put anyone off their tea (I probably should have put a warning up!). And to guest Debbie, I love all your comments and predictions. In my defence the men really are very hungry! And I think people were used to eating meat that we would turn up our noses at today, especially when there was no choice. Maybe Chonfleur and the army cooks had access to spices to disguise the flavour. Now though, d'Artagnan has more to worry about than the rancid meat..._

* * *

 **Chapter Four: Hope Is Strong**

He didn't have time to think. He pulled Nuit down the slope to a small group of olive trees, grabbed his pistol and flitted quickly back up the slope towards the track into camp. He just had time to prostrate himself behind a straggly bush before two horseman rode quietly into view, the pre-dawn light glinting on their drawn pistols.

Damnation! He ducked his head and held his breath, hoping the sudden weakness in his limbs was due to adrenaline, not fear. He waited until they were a few paces past him before rising silently to his feet, checking that his pistol was primed. It was, but as he started to track behind them he knew his chances weren't good: the Spanish soldiers had their own pistols to hand, and even if his first shot was on target, the second man would be able to fire on him before he could reload. He could diver for cover after his shot, but then the survivor would likely take off and he couldn't let that happen. They were already exclaiming quietly about the state of the French camp, spread out in the valley before them. He had to stop them before they could report back!

He had a sudden thought and switched his pistol to his left hand, pulling out his catapult with his right. He'd never used it against a man, or with anything other than pebbles, but a shot ball was heavy enough to do some damage if his aim was true. He fished a ball one-handed out of his ammunition pouch but in his haste he fumbled it. It hit the ground with a slight "chink" and he froze, only too aware he was absolutely visible on the open track if they glanced behind them.

They didn't. Trying to breath quietly through the panic roaring in his veins, he stooped to retrieve the ball and loaded it on the catapult, having to put his pistol down to use both hands and hating it, wanting nothing more than to be able to melt away and leave someone else to deal with this... Breathing out slowly through his nose, he raised the catapult, waited until the rider on the left turned his head towards his companion, then he aimed at the vulnerable part of the skull, below the temple and behind the eye socket, and let go.

Even as he reached for his pistol, he could see his aim was true and he heard the "thwack" as the pebble hit its mark. The Spaniard stopped in mid-word, seemed to sigh, then slowly folded across his saddle and slipped to the ground.

The second man gaped at his companion with no idea what had happened. Before he had time to suspect foul play or look around, d'Artagnan's shot hit him between the shoulder blades and he too hit the ground.

The sound of the shot echoed around the dawn hillside as d'Artagnan raced over to the first man, who was struggling to his feet. He looked woozy but the pistol in his hand was coming to bear on him all the same. With no time to reload, d'Artagnan drew his sword mid-stride and lunged before the Spaniard could line up his shot. One thrust and the dazed man collapsed quietly to the ground, folding over the blade in his stomach with barely a sound.

d'Artagnan pulled his blade free and wiped it automatically with shaking hands, before standing, panting, for a long moment, trying to gather his scattered wits. Everything had happened so fast and it felt like a long time since he'd take a life. He'd almost forgotten that moment of intimacy when you trade a glance with the man who will steal your life if you don't claim his; that moment when all noises recede and time's pulse slows to a whisper; that moment when your lives entwine and your souls meet in perfect understanding; that moment of stillness before one life fades and the other pulls away. It is dislocating, soul-jarring when you step back into real time, return to the madness of your surroundings, and it always left him feeling hollow and shaky.

He was distantly aware of shouts from the camp but he didn't rouse himself until he heard a horse approaching up the track at a flat out gallop. Realising it would be prudent not to be found in the low dawn light with the bodies by whoever was coming to investigate, in case he got shot by one of his own countryman in a panic, he retreated back down the track to collect Nuit.

As he reached the track again, leading Nuit by the reins and with his free hand held out to the side to make it clear he was unarmed, he found Guérin straightening up from the bodies and swinging his pistol around to bear on d'Artagnan's chest.

"It's me! d'Artagnan!"

"Sorry!" Guérin lowered his pistol, looking around. "Is this your work? We only heard one shot."

d'Artagnan nodded, waving his catapult before stuffing it back in his pocket. "My farm upbringing has its uses."

"So I see." Guérin was now staring at the rabbit corpses dangling from d'Artagnan's saddle. "Is that breakfast?" The note of hope in his voice was unmistakeable.

d'Artagnan chuckled as they heaved the Spanish bodies off the track to deal with later. "You're feeling better then?"

"Heaps. I stopped throwing up a few hours ago and got some sleep. I feel ridiculously weak but I've been lucky, I didn't eat much before we set off on patrol."

d'Artagnan squared himself up to mount, thinking it was a long way up to the saddle.

"Are _you_ okay?"

"Yes, fine," he answered automatically, mustering the energy to mount. It felt like a long time since he'd last sat down, let alone slept. "How's camp?" he asked, as they gathered the Spanish mounts to lead them back to camp.

"The same. Maybe a bit less vomiting from the ones that started first."

d'Artagnan nodded. "We need to have someone out here on patrol: if those Spaniards had reported back, they'd be launching an attack within hours. We look like a dead camp from here."

Guérin halted his horse, looking around. He hadn't noticed when he'd emerged from his sick bed, but out here, in the early morning silence, it was only too obvious how sick the camp was. "You're right," he breathed. "What can we do?"

"Get the fires lit. Make some noise. Clear up the vomit and straighten things up. The mess tables are piled up everywhere, there are men sleeping on the ground... and we need to set some patrols, back where I found the Spaniards and at the same distance the other side of camp."

Guérin nodded. "I'll round some people up. There are a couple of others who've been sleeping for a few hours; reckon it would do them good to get some fresh air." He grinned, suddenly, and d'Artagnan felt his spirits lift for the first time since all this had begun.

"Good. I'll sort breakfast. Can you spread the word? We'll have muster at 8 o'clock in our camp, unless the army boys want to do their own. Food should be ready by then. I want to see everyone who can actually stand so I can assess our manpower. All the guards will need relieving..." Guérin just smiled to himself, hearing the sense of purpose in d'Artagnan's voice and knowing that the Gascon was thriving, not breaking, under the pressure of this crisis.

They parted at the gate, d'Artagnan promising a weary Gasnault that he would be the first to be relieved.

"Hey, d'Artagnan!" Gasnault called after him as he followed Guérin into camp. d'Artagnan halted Nuit and looked back. "You're doing a great job. For a Gascon."

d'Artagnan snorted and waved a hand in the air, but he had a smile on his face as he moved off again.

After checking on everyone – finding Porthos and Athos both sleeping, to his relief – he headed for the back of the mess tent where Chonfleur kept the supplies. He was shocked at how little food there was left. If that supply wagon didn't arrive today they would be in deep trouble. His rabbits might feed the few dozen who were functioning at the moment, but a whole bloody hillside of rabbits wouldn't feed the rest of the camp for more than a day once they were up and about again!

He worked quickly, finding solace in the familiar action of skinning, gutting and cleaning the small corpses. He found carrots, onions and turnips in a sack and prepared those quickly, adding them to the meat in a couple of large kettles he had first scrubbed very carefully to make sure there were no traces left of the foul meat from yesterday. Adding some wild thyme he'd stuffed in his pocket on the hillside whilst bagging the rabbits, he carried the kettles outside where he found the camp fire was absolutely cold, as he'd feared. It took him ten minutes to rake the ashes, prepare kindling and coax the fire back into life but eventually he had enough of a blaze going to hang the kettles over. He stacked the fire with plenty of wood to keep it going and headed back to make bread.

He'd been taught by his mother when he was a small child, and it had become his job permanently after her death when he was nearly nine. The d'Artagnan farm was too far from any market for them to be able to buy it. When he first joined the Musketeers as a cadet, he'd often helped Serge in the kitchen but once he'd been given his commission Serge had chased him out of the kitchen, saying he had more important things to do now he was a full Musketeer.

He felt an unexpected surge of homesickness, longing to be sitting in the warmth of the garrison mess room now, listening to Serge grumbling in the kitchen and the men's banter as they gathered to break their fast. What would Constance be doing now? Six o'clock: she would be up and perhaps helping Serge to knead the bread, just as he was doing now. He felt a sense of comfort settle over him at that thought and hugged it to him like a fire-warmed stone.

It was half an hour before he managed to fire up the metal ovens Chonfleur used to bake his bread. They were basically two rectangular tins, one inside the other, propped over a fireplace, but they worked well enough and soon the first batch of bread was in.*

He took the opportunity to nip over to the medical tent and found Julien there, mixing up yet another batch of his tea. "Nearly out of ginger," he grunted without preamble as d'Artagnan came in. d'Artagnan reflected that he was sounding more and more like Etienne every day, as he promised Julien that they would make a priority to find more. After beefing up the patrols, cleaning up the camp, and gathering more firewood, he added under his breath. Oh, and finding the supply wagon. Asking Julien to kick anyone out to muster at 8am who hadn't thrown up in the last three hours, he hurried off again to check on the bread.

By 8am there were nearly 40 men gathered in the muster area of the Musketeer camp. That was encouraging, reflected d'Artagnan as he dived into his tent to grab his doublet and buckle it up hastily.

When he emerged, he was taken aback to find Lieutenant Colombe standing in front of the assembled men, shouting at them to line up and stop talking. He hadn't really thought about who would take muster, as those unaffected came from all regiments, but so far he hadn't seen any senior officers up and about so had thought it would be an informal gathering to plan the work until someone more senior took over. It seemed Colombe had other ideas.

He'd seen the lieutenant a few times around the camp since he'd arrived, but had not had cause to speak to him again since their run-in at the gate. But he'd heard a few grumbles from the army men about the inexperience officer who toadied up to his seniors, and ordered his men around as if they were his personal slaves. Nothing he'd heard had contradicted the opinion he'd first formed of the man, as an odious bully.

As d'Artagnan approached Colombe turned on him and barked "You're late!".

In fact it was still a couple of minutes before eight o'clock, but he said nothing, slipping into a place to one side and trying not to laugh as the men went on talking amongst themselves, many of them casting him conspiratorial glances. It seemed that no one, not even the men from Colombe's own Picardy regiment, was in any mood to be shouted at this morning.

"Silence!" screamed Colombe eventually, spittle flying from his lips. That did shut everyone up – for a moment. Then someone tittered, someone else dug him in the ribs and in seconds there was a general hubbub again.

d'Artagnan suddenly saw Athos' tent flap pulled aside and the man himself walk out. Although 'walked' was perhaps an exaggeration: 'tottered' might be more accurate. Athos looked awful. Even at this distance d'Artagnan could see the sheen of sweat on his face and the pinched look around his eyes which suggested he was in pain. His shirt was untucked, his hair plastered to his head in some places and sticking up randomly elsewhere, and overall he looked like he'd just staggered home from the nearest hostelry. But he was up and about, and just the sight of him made d'Artagnan's heart gladden. Before he knew it he was slipping from his place and running over to meet him before Athos could fall over his own feet, something which currently looked eminently possible.

He ignored the shout of outrage from Colombe as he left the ranks, tossing a quick "Sorry Sir! I didn't think we'd started," over his shoulder.

When he reached Athos he hesitated, wondering if the man would want his weakness displayed for everyone to see, but then shrugged and wrapped an arm around his waist anyway. It wasn't like Athos was the only one sick.

Athos grunted, and voluntarily slung his arm gratefully over d'Artagnan's shoulders. "Have you upset that Lieutenant? He looks apoplectic," he observed in a rough voice.

d'Artagnan grinned. "I don't think he likes me," he whispered. "Do you want to take muster?" he added in a louder voice as they neared the muster area, for Colombe's benefit. The loathsome man had temporarily given up trying to get the men to come to attention and was stalking up and down prodding people and berating them for their sloppy appearance.

"No."

d'Artagnan looked at Athos. That was short, even by his standards. He helped him to sit on the side of the well and stood back, waiting to see if he fell over. Athos cocked an eyebrow at him, and d'Artagnan moved off with a grin, retaking his place in the front line.

Athos watched for about 30 seconds as Colombe tried again to restore order, then cleared his throat. "You! Pigeon, is it?"

The Lieutenant reddened still more, if that were possible. "It's Colombe!" he spat.**

"Hm. When did you recover?"

"This morning – I've been ill all night. Why?"

"I thought so. d'Artagnan, you're more au fait with where we stand. Take muster and do the briefing please."

d'Artagnan honestly thought the Lieutenant might self-combust. His face seemed to swell and his skin turned a shade of dark red that d'Artagnan was sure he'd had only seen on plums before.

Stepping cautiously past him, d'Artagnan turned to face the men who were still tittering and gossiping. Sending up a silent prayer that he wasn't going to be shamed in front of everyone, aware that amongst the men now were a couple of other sub-lieutenants and many ordinary soldiers older and more experienced than him, he tried to look them in the eye, then called quietly:

"Gentlemen, hup."

The effect was gratifyingly instant. To a man, it appeared, they had all been watching in spite of their banter, and to a man they stopped talking and came smartly to attention.

The sudden hush was so startling that, for a moment, d'Artagnan couldn't think what to say. He didn't dare look at Lieutenant Colombe who had been trying for five minutes to achieve this. Trying not to grin, and hearing a loud "hmph" from behind which – he hoped – was Athos showing approval – he cleared his throat.

"Thank you. At ease." There was a general shuffling as the men relaxed their stance. d'Artagnan composed himself and tried to prioritise in his head.

"First of all, everyone has worked incredibly hard during the night. You've all done a magnificent job keeping the camp going under extremely difficult circumstances." There was a general murmur of appreciation at his words – apart from Colombe who could be heard muttering to himself as he stomped off.

"However there is a lot still to do. I know we are all tired, but until more men recover, it's down to us." More shuffling, but no objections. d'Artagnan nodded, feeling more confident now Colombe had gone. He ran his eyes over the men before him and spotted several people who'd not been on their feet until this morning. Catching the eye of one man he knew, he called to him. "Maurice, how are you feeling?"

Maurice looked startled to be addressed directly, but answered readily enough. "Like I've been trampled by a bull." There was a ripple of laughter: Maurice, like d'Artagnan, came from a farming background and probably knew exactly this felt. d'Artagnan nodded sympathetically but asked "Can you work?"

"Yes, Sir," came the prompt reply.

"Excellent. The first priority is to relieve the perimeter guards, and send patrols around the outskirts of the camp. You may have heard the shot this morning – that was a Spanish patrol only a few hundred paces from the camp. If they send more, and realise how incapacitated we are, we will be in trouble. So I need a dozen men to relieve the guard and patrol the hills."

He paused, waiting. For a moment there was no response as the men all looked at one another, then Dumard spoke up. "None of us have had any sleep, d'Artagnan. I'm not sure I could stay awake." There was a murmur of agreement.

"And yet we have to," replied d'Artagnan, calmly. "You'll be in pairs and can take it in turns to nap if you need to: one hour on, one hour off, like we do on missions." He looked at the Musketeers amongst them, all of whom were nodding. It was nothing they hadn't done before, and within moments he had his 12 volunteers from different regiments.

"Come to me after muster and we'll assign positions. The rest of you, we need someone to do the horses – " he nodded as several hands went up – "two on water duty, two on latrines, two on firewood..." he went on assigning jobs, making sure everyone was working in pairs so if anyone flagged, there was someone to notice. Eventually everyone had a job, so he finished with the good news. "There's fresh bread and rabbit stew on the fire. Make sure you all have a helping before you set off but leave some for the guards you're relieving. Any questions? No? Then, gentlemen, you are dismissed."

He watched them disperse, those going on patrol coming to him to check exactly where they were needed; the rest heading straight to the fire to get their portion of stew. After agreeing where each pair would patrol, he made for Athos, accepting a bowl someone handed him as he passed the fire. "You hungry?" He held the bowl out to Athos who recoiled, turning his head away quickly.

"Too soon? Try a bit of bread. It's fresh." He tore off a steaming chunk and Athos took it, nibbled a bit cautiously then took a proper bite, looking relieved.

"Is this your work?" Athos waved a hand at the cluster of men around the stew kettles. d'Artagnan nodded, tucking into the stew himself and finding, for once, that he didn't mind the meat, such was his hunger.

"You've done well." Athos caught his eye and d'Artagnan knew he wasn't just talking about the food. "Your first muster."

d'Artagnan couldn't help a shy smile creeping across his face. "It went okay, didn't it?"

Athos snorted. "You certainly put that idiot in his place."

d'Artagnan's face fell. "I know. I can't help thinking I'm going to pay for that."

Athos dismissed the idea. "Rubbish. I delegated muster to you. He had no business trying to run it here, anyway. Let him boss his own men around."

"A lot of them _were_ his own men," pointed out d'Artagnan, reasonably.

"He doesn't deserve his commission if his own men would rather muster with another regiment than with him." Athos' head was thumping and his stomach was still tender, so he had no patience for idiots like Colombe. He finished his bread and pushed himself to his feet. "Think I need to lie down again."

d'Artagnan rose quickly, shovelling down his last mouthful of stew and dumping the bowl so he could help Athos back to his tent. "How's Porthos?"

"Still sleeping and throwing up by turns. Serves him right for eating so much."

* * *

The day wore on. Gradually more emerged from their sick beds, although plenty were still incapacitated. d'Artagnan went back to check his traps, bringing in another dozen or more rabbits, This time he handed them over to Maurice to deal with. He was starting to feel a bit grotty himself with stomach cramps and mild diarrhoea. Although he hadn't eaten yesterday's stew, having seen the cramped conditions in which Chonfleur had to work it wouldn't surprise him if the bread dough had been kneaded on the same surface where the beef had been prepared. Apart from those who hadn't eaten at all last evening, it seemed most of those who'd only eaten bread were suffering mild symptoms.

He decided it was a case of mind over matter, and kept going. Several of the army men come over to ask his advice on various decisions and he ended up spending a lot of time elsewhere in the camp, helping organise the clean-up. Soon all the piles of vomit were disappearing under shovelfuls of dirt, new trenches were dug, and fires burning brightly in each part of the camp. The evicted mess tables were set up in the open air which he hoped would add to the general sense of buzz around the camp, in case any Spanish spies did get close enough to observe them. Guards were being rotated more frequently and at last some of the men who'd been up all night had managed to get some sleep.

By evening more men had emerged, including Porthos, and d'Artagnan handed control of the regiment back to Athos, heading off to take a turn on perimeter patrol. Working their way around the hills above the camp, they were startled to hear a ragged cheer drifting up from the camp. Grabbing his scope d'Artagnan saw a supply wagon finally trundling down the track towards the main gate. He and his patrol-partner Guérin exchanged a grin.

"Chonfleur is going to be happy." The portly chef had openly wept, flinging his arms in the air and wringing his hands, when he'd emerged from his sick bed to see his precious mess tent taken over as a field hospital.

"Mm. Don't suppose you can do another rabbit stew? I didn't get much this morning."

d'Artagnan grinned a proper, light-hearted grin. "I'll give Chonfleur the recipe."

* * *

 _*I have no idea if this is how bread was baked "on the hoof" at that time, but I've seen these tin-ovens (and tasted the delicious bread they produce) in a village high in the Andes completely untouched by modern technology; they are simple and portable and I hope plausible for a 17th century French field army. The double tin arrangement traps air which helps to even out spikes in the temperature of the fire, and the bread rests on the inner tin, not directly on the heat, which stops the bread from burning at the base. I think._

 _** Colombe means "dove" in French; pigeon is the same in both languages. I like to think Athos knew perfectly well what the idiot's real name was._

 _Next time, they're back to fighting, but of course nothing is straightforward..._


	6. Stick To Your Guns

_Thank you everyone for your comments and encouragement, much appreciated as always! To guests Debbie & Beeblegirl, I'm glad you liked resourceful d'Artagnan and his slingshot skills. Nice idea to give Colombe to the Spanish, Debbie, but I'm afraid he's got a bit more of a part to play first, as we will soon see ... _

**Chapter Five: Stick to Your Guns**

Two days later came the news that part of the Spanish army was on the move, and the French were ordered to intercept.

With many men still suffering the after-effects of the food-poisoning, Athos took d'Artagnan to one side the evening before. "How do you feel about fighting tomorrow?"

d'Artagnan's eyes flickered, but he nodded, resolutely. "It's time I got back into it."

"You're fit? That cut is properly healed?"

"Etienne took the stitches out yesterday; it's looking good but he said to keep it bandaged a bit longer for protection."

Athos looked unsure, his blue-green eyes scrutinising d'Artagnan carefully. He'd heard from Guérin about the patrol d'Artagnan had intercepted at dawn, but d'Artagnan had yet to speak of it as far as he knew.

It was obvious that d'Artagnan was not yet back to his former self, and he knew it was likely he would never regain the youthful optimism and sheer bloody-minded determination which had blazed from his eyes from the very first moment they met. In some ways it was no bad thing, this new caution, but it didn't sit well with his natural character, and Athos was worried for him. That awful battle, soon after d'Artagnan's rescue from the Spanish when he'd hurled himself into the fray with something close to bloodlust, had shaken Athos deeply and he would be grateful if the youngster never showed that level of reckless abandon again. But the alternative – that he might be battle-shy – was equally worrying. Porthos had told him about d'Artagnan's nerves when they approached the Spanish camp on their patrol, just before the sickness overwhelmed the camp, and he was concerned. Any hesitation in battle could be fatal.

A silence stretched between them as he contemplated. d'Artagnan shifting restlessly and Athos knew it was only respect that kept him there. He decided on a direct approach. "Tell me about the two Spaniards you killed the other morning, whilst the rest of us were busy emptying our stomachs into buckets."

d'Artagnan answered slowly, but apparently frankly, to Athos' relief, no doubt understanding the reason behind his question. "I can't deny feeling nervous at being out of the camp again, but you have looked after me well, Athos." He was referring to the way Athos had arranged his rotas to ease him gently back into duty. "When I came across that patrol, I didn't think twice."

He paused, feeling uncomfortable under the persistent scrutiny of the all-seeing gaze. He was telling the truth, but was omitting more, not least his reaction after killing the two men. Outside of the numbing cloak of battle-fever, killing close at hand was an act of intimacy to which he did not yet feel inured, and there were other fears that disturbed his sleep repeatedly. But there was only one way to regain his former confidence, and if he could not do it, he might as well leave the Musketeers, so he squared his shoulders and went on resolutely.

"Athos, it's what we do. I'm ready!"

Athos nodded. "Come to my tent after tonight's muster. I'll go over the plans with you and Porthos."

* * *

d'Artagnan had spent an hour pouring over the maps, making sure he memorised the terrain, the planned ambush site, the alternative approaches and the rendezvous points. Then he spent the rest of the night with those same routes twisting around in his brain until he thought he'd go mad.

He'd slept better after the food-poisoning – probably through total exhaustion, as he'd missed the best part of two nights' sleep, although Porthos privately speculated to Athos that it was more because he'd had to stop fretting about whether he could still be a useful Musketeer and had just got on with it.

But tonight he was back to the old nightmares of his captivity, now mixed with the very real fear of things going horribly wrong tomorrow.

Eventually he gave up and slipped quietly out of the tent, any noise he made amply disguised by the sound of Porthos' steady snoring.

He headed out of camp, knowing it was against regulations but not really caring; he was just desperate for some peace, and the space to think. He climbed the low hill overlooking their end of the encampment and settled with his back to a tree-trunk, hugging his knees and staring at the hills beyond, one of which hid the Spanish forces. He was hoping for some clarity, some revelation that would give him the confidence to face his fears in the morning.

Instead he heard, with no real sense of surprise, a set of approaching footsteps that he recognised only too well. His supposedly snoring tent-mate, Porthos.

"I woke you." Statement, not question.

"Nah. Jus' couldn't hear you breathin'." Porthos settled on the ground beside him and started chucking pebbles at a skinny sapling a few paces away.

"Sorry."

"What's botherin' you, then?"

He didn't beat about the bush, reflected d'Artagnan. He cast about for a reason for being here that wouldn't make Porthos worry about him, and came up blank.

"Just first-fight nerves again, I suppose."

Porthos raised an eyebrow. d'Artagnan was tempted to wait him out, but realised that was childish. "Look, Porthos, I am fine. Just ... out of practice."

Porthos didn't take his eyes off him, meanwhile scoring a couple of impressive hits on the sapling without even looking. When it was obvious d'Artagnan wasn't planning on saying anything else, he nudged him. "Nothin' else?"

d'Artagnan looked to the heavens. Sometimes he wished his brothers didn't know him so well. He fought an internal battle for a while, then eventually gave in. "I'm... I'm..." _Merde!_ He just couldn't say it.

"Afraid?" prompted Porthos.

"No!" _Yes._

"I am."

"What - afraid?"

"Mm-hmm. Not all the time but sometimes. Sometimes I think I'm goin' to make a mistake and get myself killed. Or get someone else killed. Not sure which scares me most."

Porthos, scared? d'Artagnan looked at him with new respect mingled with sadness: respect, for admitting it, and sadness at the thought of his friend suffering such fears. There was a long silence, during which time d'Artagnan thought of a dozen things to say but discarded each.

"Ain't told no-one that before."

d'Artagnan leaned into him, feeling his breathing settle to join Porthos' rhythm. Suddenly it was very easily to say what was on his mind. "I'm afraid of being captured again."

He felt Porthos shift as he turned to look at d'Artagnan.

"Won't 'appen."

d'Artagnan couldn't look at Porthos. The instant denial of his deepest fear was gratifying, but it was not within Porthos' control. He dropped his head, his hair masking his face. "You sound very sure of that."

"Yeah, because I won't let it."

d'Artagnan smiled in spite of himself, shaking his head at Porthos' absolute certainty that he could make that happen. Or rather, not happen. "Porthos, I – "

"Just tol' you, whelp, I won't let it 'appen." Sounding fierce, now.

"Alright – I believe you!" Clearly this was what Porthos expected to hear.

"Good. Cos if we've got that sorted, I could use some more sleep. You comin'?"

d'Artagnan rose, feeling oddly discomforted by the conversation. In the dark it had been surprisingly easy to speak what was on his mind, but Porthos had effectively batted away his concerns. Damn him and his conviction that strength of will could make everything alright; d'Artagnan knew better now.

"Porthos?"

"Yes?" The big man was halfway down the slope already and d'Artagnan had to hurry to catch up.

"If something did go wrong – "

"Ain't goin to 'appen!"

"Porthos, listen!"

Porthos stopped and waited, looking impatient.

"If, just if... will you make sure I..." Oh, God, he couldn't articulate it. "I don't want..." He forced himself speak. "Make sure I don't get captured again. Please?"

Porthos was already nodding. "We covered that already, I told you – "

"No! I don't mean protect me. I mean if you can't get to me – if you can't do anything to help. Just don't let me get captured again." There was a catch in his voice that he couldn't control, and he couldn't seem to breathe properly. He couldn't say the words, but he desperately needed Porthos to understand what he couldn't articulate.

Porthos was staring at him and he could see the moment when his meaning finally sunk in: his eyes suddenly widened and he literally took a step backwards, already shaking his head. "If you're askin' me to – no, lad, no! You can't ask that."

d'Artagnan swallowed. It had taken every ounce of his courage to voice his shameful fear, and now he'd said it, he couldn't bear for Porthos to deny him the promise that would give him peace of mind. He knew it was a lot to ask, but ...

"Turn it around," he heard Porthos say quietly. "If I asked you – could you do that for me?"

d'Artagnan shut his eyes, blood thundering in his ears. Could he? He tried to imagine some circumstance where that could happen. Porthos, lying injured on the battlefield, d'Artagnan a hundred paces away, Spanish soldiers encircling Porthos ready to drag him off... Knowing what he would face, could he do it? Could he basically execute Porthos, put him down like an injured horse, in order to save him from death as a prisoner of war?

What if d'Artagnan's own experience was unique, and most prisoners were treated well? The captain of the group that captured him had sometimes treated him as a fellow human being, after all. Maybe Bautista was not representative... maybe he could survive being captured again?

It had seemed simple: he knew without hesitation that he would choose death on the battlefield than face Bautista, or anyone like him, once more. But Porthos didn't know what he'd gone through, after all. And maybe his experience of captivity was not typical...

He let out a long breath. "I'm not... I don't know."

Porthos nodded, looking relieved. "I would want to take my chances. I can understand how you feel about being captured again, but d'Artagnan, lad, I don't think I could do that."

d'Artagnan shut his eyes, swallowing, feeling that he couldn't breathe.

"I'm not saying no." Porthos, quietly, in his ear. "That's the best I can give you."

d'Artagnan dragged a few breaths into his reluctant lungs, then felt Porthos' arm around his shoulder.

"I won't let anyone hurt you, d'Artagnan. One way or another, I'll protect you. Best I can say, my friend; best I can promise."

Overwhelmed with emotion, d'Artagnan wrapped both arms around Porthos' chest, ducking his head into the solid shoulder, a feeling of deep peace settling around him for that one precious moment.

* * *

At muster in the morning, Athos's eyes scrutinised his men carefully as he always did before a major encounter. He still hadn't been sure, after speaking to d'Artagnan the night before, whether the Gascon was yet ready to fight again, but in the morning light the young Musketeer looked resolute and calm – if tired. He looked at Porthos, to his right, and saw his fractional nod.

Aware of a feeling of reluctance, he turned back to his men and named those who would fight today. Hoping, as he dismissed them, that he was not sending any of them into a massacre.

d'Artagnan remembered only snatches of the day. Most of it was a blur, lost in the noise, the dust, the knee-trembling effort of wielding his sword for hour after hour. He remembered running forward shoulder to shoulder with his brothers, holding his sword in front of him with hands that trembled with adrenaline and fear. He remembered reaching the first Spanish line and hesitating, eyes scanning the men confronting him, looking for one face, dreading the thought of finding him. He remembered the heart-stopping moment when he stumbled and found himself looking up at two opponents closing in on him, and he remembered a roar from his left and seeing Porthos there, sweat flying as he hacked and kicked his way through to d'Artagnan's side, staying there until he had found his feet and his rhythm again.

And when, late that evening around the campfire, Athos joined them and passed the rest of his bottle of brandy around the men who were recounting their day, he caught d'Artagnan's eye, raising his glass in a silent salute to the Gascon who, it seemed, had finally found his way back to them.

* * *

Unfortunately it seemed fate had another plan for him. Or rather, not Fate, but Lieutenant Colombe.

After the muster incident Colombe had stayed clear of the musketeers in general, but it seemed whenever d'Artagnan turned around he found the man watching him. With his slowly returning confidence, he decided not to worry about it. He'd shown him up in front of the men, but it wasn't his fault the man was a jerk.

They were soon fighting almost daily. d'Artagnan found the constant encounters drained his energy at around the same speed as his stamina returned, and he was just keeping his head above water. He still looked, almost without being aware, for a certain face with a hook-nose, but gradually his fears of seeing Bautista again faded and he was too exhausted at night to dream much.

The first indication of trouble came one evening when the exhausted soldiers were making their way back into camp after another reasonably successful day. He felt sweaty and heavy-limbed as he trudged towards his tent, intending to dump his weapons and wash away the battledust coating every inch of his skin before the evening meal, but suddenly he was aware of Colombe calling him over. Or at least, calling over someone called 'Dartigan' who, d'Artagnan suspected wearily, might mean him.

Ostentatiously checking behind him d'Artagnan slapped Guérin on the shoulder and walked over reluctantly. "Did you mean me, Sir?"

Colombe didn't bother answering, simply handed d'Artagnan a waterskin and barked "Fill that up and bring it to my tent." He turned before d'Artagnan could even open his mouth in surprise and stalked off towards the main camp, leaving d'Artagnan holding the waterskin in stunned silence.

Guérin, who'd been watching discretely, wandered over. "You going to do it?"

d'Artagnan sighed. "I can't really refuse – he is a senior officer – but still... Bloody cheek."

"If you do it, he'll keep asking you."

He shrugged. "He outranks me."

Guérin pursed his lips but didn't deny it. Technically d'Artagnan was right; he could be in trouble if he refused and Colombe chose to push it, although he was quite sure Athos would back him. Speaking of which: "Why don't you check with Athos? He'll know what to do."

d'Artagnan hesitated, then regretfully shook his head. "He's got too much to do to bother with something daft like this. I'll just do it – it won't take long." Promising to meet Guérin at the river – they'd taken to swimming together after each battle, as a way both of cleaning up and of relaxing – he headed off on the fool's errand.

Guérin was right: it didn't stop there. Every time d'Artagnan turned around Colombe seemed to be there with a new petty command. Eventually Guérin took matters into his own hand and talked to Athos, but the Captain simply scowled. "Not much I can do if an officer decides to be a prick," he commented.

Guérin backed off, sensing he'd picked a bad moment, but was pleased to find Athos talking to d'Artagnan later, telling him he wasn't going to undermine d'Artagnan by intervening on his behalf, but that he had carte blanche to plead a prior mission for Athos any time Colombe invented some ridiculous task for him. It was a brief conversation, as Athos was on his way to yet another planning meeting with the generals, but he did ask d'Artagnan: "Can you deal with it?" Happy to have Athos' tacit support, d'Artagnan nodded, sure that if he kept his head down Colombe would get bored with whatever game he was playing.

The next day however, Colombe changed tactics and d'Artagnan's life got a lot more complicated.

* * *

"Oy, you, come here!"

d'Artagnan, at the rear of a six-man patrol returning from escorting a group of Spanish prisoners to the holding camp at Pau, groaned inwardly. He recognised the voice, and had no doubt that he was the 'you' in question. Guérin shot him a sympathetic look. "I'll save you some supper" he hissed, as d'Artagnan slowed Nuit and turned back towards the gate. It had been a long day and the last thing d'Artagnan wanted was yet another ludicrous assignment. He'd been in the saddle since before dawn today – almost 12 hours ago – and all he wanted to do was eat and sleep.

"Dartigan! Are you deaf?"

d'Artagnan slid off Nuit and approached reluctantly. "It's d'Artagnan, Sir, not Dartigan. What can I do for you?" he asked, neutrally.

"This needs to go to General Fournier. Immediately!" he snapped, as d'Artagnan made no move to take the letter. d'Artagnan looked around: several of the Lieutenant's own men were standing nearby wearing mixed expressions – some apprehensive, some smirking – but no Musketeers. Damn.

"I'm sorry Sir but I have my own orders. I need to – "

"Are you refusing an order from a senior officer?"

Straight in, no messing about. d'Artagnan sighed. Fournier's camp was an hour's ride away and it was already nearly dark. "I can take it as soon as I've reported back to my Captain, Sir." Hoping the reminder that he took his orders from the Musketeer Captain who outranked Colombe might make him back down. No such luck.

"Unless I'm going blind there were five other musketeers on your patrol, all perfectly capable of reporting back, I'm sure." He thrust the letter out again and raised an eyebrow, daring d'Artagnan to refuse.

Reluctantly he took the letter and tucked it into his doublet. "I'll just change to a fresh horse." Still hoping to find a way to alert Athos so he could step in and rescue him.

"Nothing wrong with your bloody horse as far as I can see. Now get going before I report you for insolence."

"Sir." d'Artagnan remounted and turned Nuit back towards the gate.

"Report back to me when you return."

Great. Just what he needed. Nudging Nuit into a trot so he could get away from the obnoxious man more quickly, d'Artagnan headed up the track, missing the sympathetic look from the guards at the gate as he concentrated on finding new descriptions for the man that involved his ancestry, his personal hygiene and his sexual proclivities.

It was three hours before he made it back to camp and he was fuming. General Fournier hadn't even been at the camp, his aide informed d'Artagnan. He'd handed the letter to a Captain who'd ripped it open, tutted and asked d'Artagnan what on earth he was doing delivering such tat at this hour. When d'Artagnan looked blank, he read it out loud: it turned out to be a request for a farrier to be seconded to the Picardy regiment the following week. "So not exactly urgent, then," commented d'Artagnan slowly, trying not to snarl the words. Apart from being saddle-weary and starving, he'd just remembered he had guard duty tonight. He wouldn't even have time to eat, and unless he got a move on he would be in trouble for being late.

The Lieutenant regarded him sympathetically. "He's got a bit of a reputation, that one. You want to stay out of his sights if you can."

"Too late for that," d'Artagnan replied gloomily. The lieutenant took pity on him and penned a quick response, complimenting Colombe on his excellent choice of speedy and efficient messenger to deliver such an urgent and important request, reading it out loud to d'Artagnan as he sealed it. d'Artagnan chuckled appreciatively, but on the return journey he began to wonder if it wouldn't just make things worse.

Apparently Colombe didn't like being made fun of. As he'd feared, the man went bright red when he read the response, d'Artagnan standing respectfully to attention outside his tent. Crumpling the parchment and dropping it to the ground, he barrelled out of his tent straight into d'Artagnan, who had to take a quick step backwards to avoid being knocked over. Unfortunately the lieutenant simply pursued him, grabbing d'Artagnan by his shirt and driving him backwards around the back of his tent.

"Sir?" gasped d'Artagnan, scrambling to keep his feet and looking round desperately hoping for a witness – any witness would do, friend or not. Colombe didn't speak until d'Artagnan's back crashed against something solid – a tree trunk, he realised – and Colombe's forearm slammed into his throat.

"I've had just about enough of you, you bastard Gascon!" he hissed, every word punctuated by a jerk of his arm into d'Artagnan's windpipe until he was literally gagging. He kept his hands by his side, determined not to lay hands on the lieutenant which would lay him open to a possible charge of striking an officer, but if he didn't manage to take a breath soon...

"What's going on?" A well-known voice, approaching at a run. d'Artagnan closed his eyes in relief, both at the prospect of being rescued, and at the rush of air into his lungs as Colombe lifted his arm from his throat and turned to face Porthos. He coughed, leaning forwards and planting his hands on his knees, trying not to retch.

"Nothing that's any of your business, _musketeer_."

 _Putain,_ the man was living dangerously. Even if he didn't know Porthos' name, using the term musketeer in that tone of voice was nothing but insulting. He coughed again and straightened, knowing he had to divert Porthos before it ended in a fight. "Nothing to worry about, Lieutenant Porthos. I was a little short of breath and Lieutenant Colombe here was trying to help me."

Porthos narrowed his eyes. d'Artagnan never used his rank to address him, except if they were on parade, and anyway it was blatant lie. Fouchard had been watching out for d'Artagnan's return, worried that he was so late, and had gone straight to Porthos when he'd seen Colombe come steaming out of his tent and grab d'Artagnan. However, d'Artagnan was making it clear that he wanted Porthos to back down.

Reluctantly he nodded, seeing the relief cross d'Artagnan's face, and beckoned to him. "Captain Athos" (emphasising his rank - two could play at that game) _"_ has been waiting for your report. Please don't hijack our men again, Lieutenant Colombe, without checking with our Captain."

With that he turned on his heel and d'Artagnan followed, feeling the lieutenant's eyes like daggers in his back all the way to the musketeer's campfire.

As soon as they were out of sight Porthos stopped d'Artagnan with a hand on his arm. "What was that all about?" he demanded.

d'Artagnan sighed. "He took a dislike to me the day I arrived in camp. I don't know why. There's a rumour that he was cheated on by a Gascon woman, or maybe he just likes bullying, but whatever the reason, he's on my back all the time. Thanks for rescuing me, by the way."

Porthos looked impatient. "Thank Fouchard – I had no idea what was going on. Why didn't you say anything?"

"You've got enough on your plate and I can handle it. I don't need looking after all the time." He sounded like a teenager, he realised, and Porthos may have thought so too because his lips twitched for a moment before he turned serious again.

"You can't win with his sort – I know the type. The only way to get him off your back is to stand up to him – and you can't do that here, or he'll have you."

"I know!" d'Artagnan knew he sounded tetchy but Porthos was treating him like an idiot, or a cadet, for goodness' sake. "Porthos, I'm grateful but just leave it. I've got guard duty now and I haven't eaten, so..."

Porthos exclaimed. "I nearly forgot, Guérin swopped with you. You've got his 6 am duty instead – he figured you wouldn't mind."

He did mind, actually. He knew he'd been a nervous wreck when he first returned from Paris, but the food-poisoning had somehow focussed his mind and shown him that he could still be a respected Musketeer: no one thought less of him because of how he reacted to his captivity. So the reminder that others still felt he needed molly-coddling* was unwelcome.

He tried not to show his irritation as he nodded his thanks and headed for the mess tent. Porthos stood watching him go, mind working furiously as he wondered what else he – and Athos – might have missed. Time to have a long chat with Fouchard, he thought.

He never had that chat. Unfortunately for everyone concerned, things came to a head a lot sooner than anyone could predict and, before the night was out, d'Artagnan found himself in serious trouble – and this time not even Porthos could help him out.

* * *

 _* In case anyone is unfamiliar with this term it means fussed over, treated gently, pampered, usually of an effeminate or ineffectual man (from "moll", old term for a prostitute, and the Latin "calder" meaning hot, which mutated into the old English "caudle", which was the giving of hot drinks to an invalid, which further mutated into the word coddle as in coddled eggs which are cooked gently in water as opposed to boiled. I'd heard of coddled eggs but never knew what they were! I looked it up in case the phrase was too modern to use here, and learned more than I expected, so I wanted to share it with you. I love how words transform over time but still reflect their origins._


	7. This Monster Inside of Me

_In response to a wild plea to update soon, and because I had a free afternoon so it is ready, here is the next chapter early, to brighten your Tuesday after a dreary, murky day._

 _Warning: some ribald army language here and some mild blasphemy, because it was needed. You'll see; it's not a happy chapter ..._

* * *

 **Chapter Six: This Monster Inside of Me**

There hadn't been much supper left by the time d'Artagnan got to the mess tent, but he'd scrounged what he could and then headed for his tent, determined to get a few hours' sleep before morning guard duty. As he passed the Musketeer's campfire however, several men called him over, encouraging him to sit with them. At first he declined, pleading tiredness, but then an all-too-familiar voice spoke out of the darkness on the other side of the fire.

"Perhaps our little Gascon is missing his home too much to join us."

d'Artagnan stopped in his tracks. What the hell was Colombe doing at the Musketeer campfire? Since the food-poisoning incident men from different regiments had mingled far more, and Athos along with several of the other regiments' captains, had encouraged the socialising. It seemed to be good for morale and was helping on the battlefield as the individual regiments began to work better together, so it was not unusual now for men from different regiments to mingle in the evenings at campfires other than their own. But he'd never seen Colombe do it before, even in his own part of camp. He was far too precious about his rank to consort with common soldiers, surely?

The lieutenant's words had not gone down too well around the fire, with several men stopping their own conversations to stare. Dammit! He was too tired to deal with this now. But if he just walked off Colombe would no doubt take it as an insult, and from the looks a couple of Musketeers were giving the prat, it could end in trouble. He tried to think how to answer without causing offense but Fouchard, bless him, got there first.

"On the contrary, Lieutenant Colombe, d'Artagnan was sent home to Paris to recuperate not so long ago. He's just tired, that's all."

d'Artagnan smiled at Fouchard, grateful for his support, and turned again to take his leave. Again that hateful voice stopped him.

"Surely Gascony is your home, Musketeer, not Paris?"

d'Artagnan grimaced. Why the hell did the man take such an interest in him? He had absolutely no desire to reveal his family history to the bloody man! Again Fouchard rescued him, or tried to.

"His home is Paris now. His wife lives at the Garrison."

d'Artagnan winced inwardly, hoping Colombe would not pursue that line of conversation. His marital status was no-one's business but his own. He decided the only thing to do would be to sit down and try to redirect the chat. He called across the fire to Reynard to pass the mead around. "How was your day, Fouchard?" he asked loudly.

"I sparred with Porthos and he only knocked me over three times," Fouchard announced with an element of pride, to hoots around the fire as the older musketeers teased him, one ruffling his hair and another snatching the mead away before it reached him, saying it was too strong for a mere boy. Fouchard took the banter in good part, being used to it: he was a few months older than d'Artagnan but the latter's close association with the Captain and Porthos, combined with his reckless bravery in battle and skill with the sword, had long protected him from ridicule, so Fouchard was definitely the adopted 'baby' of the regiment.

As the laughter died down, d'Artagnan heard the smarmy voice of his nemesis again. "No wonder he wants to get to bed then. She must have worn him out during his 'recuperation'..."

Amidst some slightly uncomfortable laughter from his soldiers, he carried on, rising to wander around the men gathered by the fire. "Or maybe she didn't put out for him? What do you think, Fouchard, you little sycophant? Do you reckon she did? Or maybe he couldn't manage it. War can be quite emasculating, apparently. Perhaps he's heading off to think about her, in the privacy of his tent. Maybe he's going to have a feel of his little prick and imagine he's rocking her..."

He had reached d'Artagnan now and stood behind where he sat, patting him on the shoulder then squeezing the back of his neck in an over-familiar way...

While he was speaking there was growing uproar around the campfire as some Picardy men laughed, whilst the Musketeers – and other Picardies - protested loudly. Fouchard was on his feet, shouting that Colombe was out of order, and Guérin was restraining him, shushing him and calling for calm.

* * *

Through the rising hubbub, d'Artagnan doesn't hear the words. He is not bothered by what Colombe said.

He only hears the sounds: the mocking tones, the bursts of laughter directed his way, and he is _back there_.

He's back there, with his hands tied, literally and figuratively, knowing what is coming, knowing he is powerless to stop it, knowing it will keep happening; he is just a plaything at the mercy of a bully, and any second now he is going to be grabbed and flung to the ground and someone will stand on his neck so he can't move, can't resist, can't speak, and there's nothing he can do –

Then a hand grabs him by the neck, and his body reacts without thought: adrenaline floods his muscles, exploding his body upwards, and he twists in the same instant and smashes his fist with all the power he can muster into the face of his tormentor because this time, _this time_ he is not going to let it happen. He sees the face shatter under his blow, sees the man flying backwards, blood spurting from his lip –

A flying tackle knocks him to the ground; hands hold him down; there's someone punching him and roaring at him and someone else yelling 'stop it' in Fouchard's voice and all he can do is lie on his side, cheek pressed into the dirt, and stare at the man he sees in every nightmare ...

And slowly he realises what he's done.

He's not looking at the face of Bautista.

It's Colombe laying on his back in the dirt, a few feet away. Clutching a bloody mouth and screaming blue murder.

And d'Artagnan comes back to himself, looking around and seeing only Frenchmen, most of them shouting and gesticulating, but not so much at him now. He's nearly forgotten, squashed under one of Colombe's men who is kneeling on his back, swearing at the Musketeers who are trying to pull him off. d'Artagnan doesn't really care about that, though his back hurts and his face is throbbing.

All he can think of is that it wasn't him. It wasn't Bautista. _That_ bastard is still out there. And _this_ one is here, in his face again, lunging forward on his knees and glaring from inches away, bloody spit flying from his mouth as he hisses "You'll pay for this, musketeer!" and d'Artagnan manages to gasp out an apology. He can't think what else to say, just that he's sorry, he didn't mean to hit him, repeating himself over and over...

The weight comes off his back and hands pull him upright. Someone has him by the shoulders and is shaking him: Porthos. d'Artagnan lets out a sob that he hopes goes unheard in the hubbub, and leans on Porthos' chest, hearing the reassuring thump of his heartbeat under his bruised cheek. And he keeps his eyes closed because he's tired, he's _so tired_ , and he doesn't want to think about what might come next.

* * *

What comes is Athos, in his shirtsleeves, fetched from his late-night report-writing by a nearly hysterical Fouchard. And Colombe, on his feet now, calling the shots, accusing d'Artagnan of insubordination, of attacking him without provocation, the blood on his face and the puffy lip ample evidence to support his claims. No matter that the Musketeers around the fire protest vigorously and condemn him for insulting d'Artagnan, no matter that most of Colombe's own men are keen to back up the Musketeers when they think their lieutenant isn't looking.

Athos sorts through the chaotic babble of voices, and hears one truth, and his stomach hits his boots.

He looks to where Porthos is still basically holding d'Artagnan up, talking to him quietly and dabbing at the blood welling from a cut under his eye where two of Colombe's men were over-enthusiastic in the defence of their officer. Surrounded by angry, gesticulating men and loud voices, Porthos and d'Artagnan present a tiny tableau of stillness and Athos, for a moment, can only look, knowing that what he has to do will shake their world.

The babble is growing and counter-accusations are flying, and a couple of other captains have appeared, attracted by the shouting, and Athos knows he cannot delay, or anger will spill into violence from which it would be hard to recover.

"Enough."

Those surrounding him back off a pace, others notice him for the first time, and within seconds he has every man's eyes on him. Keeping a tight lid on everything that is bubbling inside him, Athos takes two steps to the centre of the throng and touches d'Artagnan on the shoulder.

d'Artagnan straightens and turns, feeling a chill on his chest where Porthos' warmth has been, and meets Athos' eyes.

Athos searches his face, seeing the dark eyes boiling with some emotion he cannot identify, noting the cut under the eye, the bruising on his jaw. The tight line of his lips as he holds himself stiffly. Waiting.

Athos could cry, knowing the answer to his question even before he asks it. Hating to have to ask. But doing it anyway, because he has to, because he's a Captain and he has to follow the rules of the bloody army, instead of the conventions of the Musketeer regiment. It's out of his hands. He pulls in a long, slow breath while everyone watches and holds theirs.

"d'Artagnan, did you strike Lieutenant Colombe?"

d'Artagnan's eyes do not leave Athos' as he lifts his chin, and answers calmly: "Yes, Sir." A murmur ripples around the circle of watchers.

Athos steps in closer, so close that d'Artagnan can feel the heat from his skin, and speaks for his ears only. "Give me a reason not to do this."

It's a command but it's also a plea; d'Artagnan can see in Athos' eyes his desperate need to know _why_.

But he can't tell him what happened.

How can he? He doesn't know, himself: only that he hadn't been _here,_ in that moment, he'd been back _there_ where there were no rules or regulations, only pain and torment, and some sick bastard amusing himself with d'Artagnan's body while his men watched and laughed.

How can he explain it – now, here, to Athos, with everyone watching and listening avidly?

Or ever, actually: how can he _ever_ explain?

He's trapped here. He came back of his own volition when he could have asked to remain in Paris; Tréville had offered but he couldn't imagine doing anything other than fighting the war alongside his brothers. So he can't complain. He knew what he was coming back to; he just hadn't known how hard it would be to cope. But he doesn't have a choice. Like every other man here, he has to live by the army rules. Keep going. Support your fellow men. Don't make a fuss. Don't complain. Do nothing to distract from the task at hand. Win. Survive.

Don't strike an officer.

"I can't." He can give no reason; there _is_ no reason not to do what d'Artagnan knows Athos will have to do. Whatever the provocation, you can't strike an officer. He's an officer himself, only a sub-lieutenant, but even if he'd been of the same rank, it wouldn't matter. It's up there with desertion; if they let it happen once the edifice of command would fall apart. The army cannot run without discipline. There is no way out of this. He waits, his eyes locked on Athos', trying to tell him he's sorry, that it's okay, that he understands.

Athos goes on staring at him for far longer than is comfortable. There is a hushed silence around them as every holds their breath, but he says nothing. There is nothing he can say, or do, and he knows it, and it is killing him, because it's bloody Ann all over again, only this time, thank God, the punishment is not hanging. Although, he thinks – finally taking a step back and releasing d'Artagnan's arm where he's been gripping it fiercely – it almost might be that final, for how can they survive this?

He takes a deep breath before raising his voice slightly, his eyes still on d'Artagnan. "Sub-Lieutenant d'Artagnan, you have committed the offence of striking a superior officer. I therefore sentence you to ten lashes. Sentence to be carried out in the morning."

There is a flurry of gasps and protests around the onlookers and Porthos steps forwards, fists clenched at his sides. His expression is unreadable by Athos but he can guess at the man's emotions since they will likely mirror his own: shock, disbelief, distaste, anger, disappointment...

Athos is desperate to stop Porthos from saying anything in this highly charged public situation but it is d'Artagnan who speaks, his voice carrying clearly over the others. "Will I return to my quarters, Sir?"

His tone is quietly accepting, and respectful, and does much to calm the anger around the campfire, and Athos could have hugged him. "Yes. Porthos, could you...?"

Porthos' nostrils flare his disapproval and disgust at what Athos is asking him to do, but he looks from one to the other, then nods and gestures for d'Artagnan to move. There is no way he's going to undermine d'Artagnan who is dealing with the situation with such dignity. The pair walk side by side, not talking, certainly not in the manner of a prisoner being escorted, but he can't escape the knowledge that in effect that is what he is doing: escorting d'Artagnan as if he is not to be trusted.

Lieutenant Colombe has stood quietly to the side during this, one hand pressing a bloody handkerchief to his lips so it's hard to see his expression. But as Athos watches his two closest friends walk away, Colombe approaches him. "He had it coming, that one. Given me nothing but grief from the moment he arrived."

Athos wants nothing more than to punch the man himself. Instead, exercising the iron control that everyone thinks comes naturally but which actually takes, often, far more energy than he can possibly spare, he steps away without comment and heads back towards his tent, his emotions in such turmoil that he thinks he might throw up before he gets there.

Surprisingly it is Fouchard who comes to Athos' rescue – Fouchard, who has looked up to d'Artagnan from the moment he joined the Musketeers, and who is probably his staunchest supporter outside of the Inséparables. Fouchard who stared at Athos in utter disbelief as he announced the sentence, but who is now standing in the doorway of his tent, asking if Athos needs anything.

Athos has made it to his bed, thumping down heavily and staring at his unfinished correspondence, wondering how the evening could have gone so horribly wrong in such a short space of time. Looking up at the sound of Fouchard's hesitant question, he shakes his head slowly, then – expecting Fouchard to go immediately – drops his head into his hands. He is surprised therefore to hear the sound of liquid being poured into a cup. Half expecting to see Porthos, he looks up to find Fouchard thrusting the cup his way with a determined hand that only trembles slightly.

He takes it, without real thought, and stared into it. He is aware of Fouchard stepping away, and the rustling as the youngster straightens the mess on his map table, then starts to shake out his doublet. He sighs, and places the cup of precious wine onto the crate beside his bed. It would be wrong to drink, tonight. He can't explain why but the thought of alcohol turns his stomach.

"Why don't you say what's on your mind, Fouchard? Then maybe I can have some peace."

Fouchard expertly ignores the grumpy tone of Athos' words and turns earnest eyes on his Captain. "Colombe's goaded him from the start, Sir. He just pushes and pushes. He's a bully."

"This is not news."

"I know but tonight, Sir, it was horrible, the things he was saying, about Constance and d'Artagnan not being able to – to – perform... "

The lad was blushing now and Athos shut his eyes wearily for a second. He is almost too tired to respond, but he wants Fouchard to understand. _Needs_ him to. He doesn't question whether, in fact, it is someone else he needs to convince.

"There are no mitigating circumstances for an act of insubordination such as d'Artagnan displayed. We're part of the combined army here and we have to follow their regulations. It's not our way in the Musketeers, never has been, but..."

He trails off, simply too overwhelmed to carry on speaking. He cannot believe this is happening: that in the morning he will have to flog his own protégé, the young man he thinks of as a brother, as dear to him as anyone in his world; a man who has fought beside him, put up with all his failings, supported him, hugged him and looked up to him from the beginning ...

He turns his head just in time to empty the contents of his stomach on the ground by his bed. Then he simply stares at the mess and wonders how on earth any of them are ever going to get past this.

He's forgotten Fouchard so he jumps when a cloth appears in his view, followed by a cup of water. He takes both, and raises bleak eyes to the earnest young man before him. "Get some sleep, Fouchard."

Fouchard nods and turns to go.

"And thank you."

* * *

In the tent he shares with Porthos, d'Artagnan sits on his bed in much the same pose as Athos: elbows propped on knees, head in hands. Porthos paces up and down the tiny space, bumping into the beds and the canvas at every stride, cursing and filling the air with angry energy. "What were you _think_ ing? What goes on in that head of yours, for pity's sake?" He slumps onto his bed and glares at the Gascon. "I _know_ he's a bastard, I _know_ he riles you – but to _hit_ him?! You _know_ , you _must_ know the consequences. Why the hell did you do it?"

"I was tired and I wasn't..."

" _Tired_? That's it? That's your excuse, you're _tired_? _Mon Dieu!_ If we all used that as an excuse we'd have ripped each other to shreds by now. Fuck's sake!"

Porthos' language was often colourful but rarely crude and d'Artagnan knows it is a measure of his deep distress. Suddenly aware how much this will affect his old friend, he straightens and looks at him properly, shocked to see tears in Porthos' eyes.

He moves without conscious thought to sit beside Porthos. "I'm sorry, mon ami. So sorry..." Tentatively he puts an arm around the burly Musketeer and instantly feels Porthos lean into him.

" _Why_?"

The simplicity of the question takes his breath away, but still he can't answer. It is wrapped up in everything that happened to him when he was captured, and everything that is wrong in his head: his doubts that he will ever be the same, that he will ever fight as well as he had before; his fears that he will let his brothers down and that he will be a drain on the regiment; in the way it is hard to _think_ , sometimes, over the cacophony of doubts and flashbacks in his head. All he can do is shake his head in despair. "It doesn't matter. I hit him and I shouldn't have. That's all that –"

"It _does_ bloody matter! It matters to me!" Porthos sits up straight, pushing d'Artagnan away in his anger.

d'Artagnan lets out a long, shaky breath. Porthos is right, but it doesn't change anything. It just means there will be an even bigger chasm between them, as d'Artagnan struggles with everything on his own, and Porthos grows angrier at being shut out. He _knows_ d'Artagnan isn't right and he _hates_ not being allowed to help, and d'Artagnan mourns the extra distance this will put between them.

Porthos is still glaring at him furiously, but d'Artagnan knows he cannot begin to explain everything. Not tonight, and probably not here. Because he would very likely unravel, if he did try; and Porthos would never look at him the same way. Certainly not here, on the front: he would always be the 'damaged one'. The weak link, to be protected. And d'Artagnan couldn't bear that.

So he rises and moves back to his bed, and he lies down, and he turns his back on his old friend and protector, and shuts him out. Again. And after a long moment in which d'Artagnan can _feel_ Porthos staring at him, he hears Porthos rise and leave the tent.

* * *

Porthos goes to Athos and finds him staring at the reports on his table. He looks up as Porthos walks in, and his expression is so bleak that Porthos forgets all about being angry with him. Instead he picks up the cup of wine Fouchard poured for Athos and drains it. Athos doesn't protest: he wants to drink enough to blot all this out, but he only has one bottle and knows that won't be enough, not by a country mile, so he has not yet taken a sip.

Athos breaks the silence. "I couldn't – I can't just... " He stops, waving a hand helplessly.

Porthos shakes his head but he's not disagreeing: it's disbelief at the situation.

"How is he?"

Porthos sighs. "He just said it didn't matter why. And he was sorry."

" _Christ!"_ Athos picks up the wine goblet and then puts it down again, his hand shaking. Porthos hesitates, then puts a hand over Athos' and pulls him in. Athos resists at first, then visibly gives in and allows Porthos to hug him. The two men sit in silence for a long time, neither able to articulate what they are feeling, nor to find a way out.

Eventually Athos pulls back and tells Porthos he should get some sleep. He is sending Porthos back to d'Artagnan, tacitly asking him to look after him.

Which hurts Athos, because he can no longer do that himself. d'Artagnan has made him choose between his captain's rank and duty to the army – in effect, to Tréville, who appointed him – and his love for the man he's thought of as his younger brother for the last four years. His anger at the situation is as palpable as his pain, but he cannot express either. He can no longer be both friend and leader to his closest soul-mates. He can only be Captain Athos now.

* * *

 _Author's Note: According to Wikipedia, flogging in the French army persisted until the French revolution (being banned much earlier than in Britain, where it was legal until 1948). I look forward to hearing your thoughts!_


	8. Illusion of Me

_I really wanted to update sooner but it's been a full on kind of week, so I'm sorry to keep you waiting, but it's here; I won't say "enjoy" because it's not that kind of chapter but there is plenty of love here in spite of the situation they are in, and I hope that comes across. And now the inevitable warning: d_ _es_ _cription of corporal punishment. Skip this chapter if this will upset you._

 **Chapter Seven: Illusion of Me**

The night passed. Neither of them slept. They each lay listening to the other's breathing, and willed the night to heal everything, and dreaded the new day, and marvelled at how time could both creep and gallop at the same time.

d'Artagnan rose as soon as he heard the first chirrup of the sparrows. Porthos' eyes tracked him as he pulled on his boots and put on his oldest shirt, leaving his doublet and weapons on his bed. As d'Artagnan headed out, he stopped and turned back, managing to raise a shaky smile. "It'll be alright, Porthos. Please, tell Athos that I understand, and I'm sorry." And he left before Porthos could think of a response.

Left on his own Porthos sat up, his eyes feeling hot and scratchy. He pinched the bridge of his nose viciously, wondering how he was going to get through today; wishing he could be anywhere else but here, today. Then he cursed himself – knowing that the day would be a heck of a lot worse for both d'Artagnan and Athos – and hauled himself out of bed, putting on what Aramis called his 'game face': stoic, cheerful, confident, supportive Porthos, reporting for duty.

* * *

d'Artagnan hauled a bucket of water from the well and tipped it over his head, trying to wake himself up and relishing the feeling of the cool liquid on his skin. Shaking the droplets from his hair he straightened and looked around.

A few men were stirring, heading for the latrines or joining him at the well. No one wished him a good morning and no one met his eyes. Not sure if this expressed their disapproval or simply discomfort at not knowing what to say, d'Artagnan decided to dismiss everyone else from his head. He would not have room for any extra emotions today.

Raising his chin in a familiar gesture, he turned from the well and then stopped, realising he had no idea where to go. Back to his tent, to wait for the summons? He couldn't go to Athos – that would be totally inappropriate. He couldn't go to the horse lines in case someone thought he was planning to abscond. Ditto the river. It was too early for breakfast, even if he could stomach any. A walk around the camp? More staring eyes – maybe not. He turned in a slow circle and saw to his relief Guérin approaching him.

"Morning, d'Artagnan. Ready for duty?"

 _Merde_. He'd completely forgotten that Guérin had swopped duties with him after he'd been sent on that bloody errand last night. "I'll – I might be a bit late." Guérin obviously didn't know what had happened when he'd returned. Maybe he'd leave one of those lovely people currently staring at him to explain it. "I'll tell Porthos. Excuse me."

As he walked away he could hear Guérin asking someone what he'd missed, then an eruption of swearing, but he couldn't worry about that. He had to shut his mind. Just find Porthos and tell him about guard duty. One thing at a time.

An odd sound stopped him in his tracks. _Wang_. _Wang_. He looked over to the centre of the main camp, a hundred paces away, where he found the source of the sound: two men hammering a tall post into the ground. His insides seemed to turn to liquid as he recognised its purpose. It would be the whipping post.

A voice in his ear, suddenly. "Don't look. It'll be fine. Just keep your head up." Guérin, grasping the situation in seconds and working out where his energy was needed at this moment: in supporting, not in questioning or emotion.

He nodded, without looking Guérin's way, and set off again towards where he could see Porthos buckling his doublet on outside their tent. He was aware of Guérin shadowing him quietly but didn't alter his focus. One step at a time.

By the time he reached Porthos, the big musketeer had also identified the sound of the post being hammered into the ground and his face had darkened with rage. "They're doing it there?" he hissed, brushing past d'Artagnan as if he were irrelevant. " _Putain!_ That's crazy. It's nothing to do with the main camp!" And he bustled off towards Athos' tent.

"Porthos! I'm on duty at 6 o'clock. Can you tell Athos?"

Porthos stopped abruptly and swung around, looking bemused.

"Guérin swopped with me, remember? You'll need to find cover for me until afterwards..." his voice trailed off, not sure if he'd be able to stand duty afterwards. Aware of the adrenaline starting to pump through him at the thought of what lay ahead.

Porthos nodded slowly and turned back to find Athos just as Guérin came up to stand by d'Artagnan. "It'll be fine," he repeated. "It's Athos. He won't hurt you."

d'Artagnan didn't know whether Guérin meant Athos would find some way out of carrying out the punishment, or just that he would be gentle, but either way he couldn't manage to speak. One voice in his head was telling him just to run, but another voice was telling him go deep inside himself somewhere none of this mattered, and he couldn't seem to speak past either voice.

And then he saw Athos.

Their eyes met immediately across the open space, even with Porthos bearing down on Athos and a dozen Musketeers milling around in between. And d'Artagnan could immediately see every second of his own sleepless night reflected on Athos' face, and see the torment threatening to break his calm façade, and knew that nothing else mattered other than to make it right with Athos.

So he smiled. It was a rueful smile. It said _'I know I'm a prat. I've messed it all up, and I'm sorry, but it will be okay, and I'm sorry'._ And he saw Athos' expression soften for just a second, until Porthos reached him and the day crashed back into place around him, and he saw Athos don his Captain's mantle again, and that tiny moment of understanding was lost.

* * *

There were a ludicrous number of people up and about for this time in the morning, mused d'Artagnan as Porthos led him across to the newly erected post. _Shame it's not raining, then let's see how many of you want to stand and watch._ His thoughts were skittering all over the place and he welcomed it, happy not to think about being flogged until he absolutely had to ... damn! Now the words were thundering in his ears. He was going to be flogged, _flogged_ , like a common criminal, in front of friends, and men he looked up to, and men who looked up to him. He had commanded some of these men, only in small ways so far but he'd been given a position of responsibility, of leadership, and now he was to be stripped of his dignity and his flesh literally laid bare for all to see...

"Steady." The voice in his ear sounded just as it had been all those months ago, on the way to his first proper battle. Porthos, sensing his rising panic. Always by his side – but he can't be, for this. This is just me now. Me and five hundred pairs of eyes.

"Take your shirt off." They'd arrived at the pole, and the soldiers who'd been lounging casually around the central muster area had followed them, drawn like magnets, moving to form a perfect circle around the post. Porthos was looking at him, his face calm as always, waiting.

 _Merde_... this was really happening. Slowly he raised leaden arms to his shirt and started to fumble at the lacings with stiff, shaking fingers. There was a low murmur of voices around him, easy to block out, as he finally succeeded in loosening the laces enough to pull his shirt over his head.

Someone stepped forward to take it immediately and he glanced over. Guérin, looking white faced but resolute, managing to squeeze d'Artagnan's fingers slightly as he took the shirt and stepped away.

It won't hurt, d'Artagnan told himself. It doesn't break the skin, it's no worse than a beating in a fight and God knows he'd had enough injuries in his time to know how to deal with pain.

But this would be different, another voice told him. This is Athos causing you pain, deliberately. Your friend. The man you look up to above all others. And he's punishing you because you've lost control in a moment of – what? Inattention? Distraction? Madness? He deserved this, he realised. He'd brought it on himself. He had to learn to separate what had happened, to box it up and not let it ruin his future... He would use this, learn from it. It would make him stronger -

 _Fils de pute_! His moment of introspection fled as Porthos approached holding out a pair of iron manacles. Immediately his resolve vanished as his bowels cramped and panic surged through him at the thought of being manacled ... like a prisoner.

Porthos saw the colour drain from his face and the slight lurch as his knees started to give way, and correctly interpreted it. Instantly his free hand was catching d'Artagnan under the elbow, yanking him towards him in a way that might look rough to the onlookers, but in fact saved him from collapsing.

"Stand tall!" he hissed in d'Artagnan's ear as he released his elbow cautiously.

"Don't... don't put those on. Please!" d'Artagnan whispered, hating to beg but not able to take his eyes off the manacles. It was too much; just too much.

Porthos hesitated. "You'll need something to hold on to." He looked around, seeing Guérin still nearby. "Fetch me some rope," he commanded, quietly. Guérin shot off and Porthos dropped the awful manacles behind d'Artagnan, out of his sight.

It was but a moment before Guérin returned with a length of rope. Porthos quickly fashioned a loop at one end, passing it through the ring on the post then making a loop at the other end. "Put your hands through there," he instructed, nodding his approval as d'Artagnan put each hand through the loop then wrapping his hands around the rope above each loop. This would anchor him and give the appearance of being tied up, yet he would be able to free his hands if he chose.

Porthos made a show of checking the stability of the post, the ring and the ropes, using his proximity to say quietly: "You can do this. Focus on one thought. I'll be right here. You're with friends." Then he stepped away and d'Artagnan turned his head to follow him, feeling bereft of his comforting presence. Porthos moved to stand next Guérin and the group of other Musketeers, which seemed to include pretty much anyone who wasn't on duty, d'Artagnan thought.

The murmuring suddenly stopped and d'Artagnan his head craned further around to see Athos approaching, back ramrod straight, face inscrutable, looking the same as he did every morning before muster, except that in his hand he held a horse whip – a thin, flexible leather-bound cane around two feet long, crowned with a short flick of thin leather.

That doesn't look too bad, thought d'Artagnan, turning his head back and settling his feet apart so he wouldn't stagger. And it was only ten blows. Now it was about to happen, he just wanted to get it over with, confident he could deal with it.

But Athos cleared his throat and then his voice rang out around the gathering.

"Sub-lieutenant d'Artagnan, please turn to face me." Startled, d'Artagnan twisted around awkwardly with his hands still through the loops of rope, seeing, with surprise that immediately turned to dread, that Fouchard was handing d'Artagnan's doublet to Athos. "You admit to striking a superior officer. You are therefore no longer fit to lead men, and must forfeit your officer's commission. d'Artagnan, I am relieving you of your rank as of now." And so saying, he started to unbuckle d'Artagnan's pauldron, on which the symbol of his rank was etched just below the elaborate fleur de lis.*

d'Artagnan tried to hide his dismay but wasn't sure he'd succeeded. He'd heard of this before – the public humiliation or cashiering of an officer who is stripped of his rank for some misdemeanour – but he hadn't been expecting it. Lifting his chin, he held Athos' gaze, hoping to convey his acceptance of the inevitable.

In a rare display of weakness, Athos heaved a visible sigh before handing the doublet and pauldron to Fouchard and lifting the whip. He jerked his chin at d'Artagnan who felt a wave of nausea rising as he turned to face the post again.

His hands gripped the rope tightly as he waited, listening to the hushed voices of the onlookers. He heard Athos take a step closer, then another, then the scrape of his boots as he adjusted his stance slightly. He heard the slight creak of leather as he raised his arm high, then a long pause, broken only by the odd whisper from the throng of onlookers and the sound of harsh breathing – his own, he realised. He tried to breathe more slowly, deeply, clamping his mouth shut so as not to let any sound escape. Concentrate on your breathing, he told himself, thinking of Porthos' advice to focus on something. He shut his eyes but promptly opened them again so he could see the reassuring warmth of the wooden post inches in front of him. He didn't want to be in the dark... Dammit, do it, Athos! The anticipation was unbearable and he wanted to scream at him to get on with it. What was he waiting for?

There was a sudden swish and an audible thwack and the force of the blow took him completely by surprise. He stumbled forwards, his whole body thrumming with the power of the blow. His face hit the post with a dull thud, and a second later the pain rushed in as his senses caught up with him.

 _Con!_ A line of fire erupted across the skin of his back between his shoulders. He'd caught his breath as he fell into the post, and now he had to order himself to start breathing again. _Breathe through the nose, steady now._ He could almost hear Porthos talking to him: it's okay, it's fine, it's not that bad. The pain was settling into a dull ache now. He straightened, pushing himself off the post, suddenly ashamed of his body's weakness. He planted his feet again and prepared himself.

As if waiting for him to recover, Athos' next blow arrived almost immediately. It wasn't quite so hard, this one, and he only stumbled forward a tiny bit, recovering his stance almost immediately. Before the pain of the second blow had even registered, he heard the swish again and the third strike hit him, as if – now he'd started – Athos also couldn't wait to be done with this.

Each blow landed in a slightly different place so the lines of liquid fire were separate, laying a pattern of burning stripes across his shoulders and upper back.

He'd lost count! For some reason that panicked him. Was it five, or six? They didn't feel so hard, now, as if Athos had lost heart, or was going easy on him. _Seven._ Or six. He was holding his body still, trying not to lean too hard on the ropes around his wrists as they were already biting into the still fragile skin there from when he'd been manacled for four weeks by the Spanish. _Eight._ Or seven. That one landed too close to the previous hit and it hurt more than the rest, pain pulsing from his skin, dancing across his shoulders, bringing stinging tears to his eyes for a second. No! He would not show weakness. This was hurting Athos just as much as him, he knew; he would not make it worse by betraying his pain. _Nine!_ His body was beginning to tremble now but he was nearly there, he'd nearly done it. Just one more to go... _Ten!_ Or nine, he reminded himself, forcing his knees to stay locked in case he'd miscounted and there was another blow to come.

There was a growing buzz around him, and at first he thought it was because the spectacle was over, but it grew into the sound of discontent, and protest, and then he heard a quiet argument behind him, between Athos and someone whose voice he recognised only too well: Colombe.

He hadn't seen the man amongst the onlookers – he must have been standing behind, watching d'Artagnan's shame as his skin was striped by the whip. What were they arguing about? Now Porthos' voice joined in, raised in protest, and he shifted, opening his eyes and turning to look behind him, hissing as the movement pulled at his burning skin.

"Don't look." Guérin appeared, blocking his view, handing him a water bottle.

"Don't look at what?" d'Artagnan was suddenly alert, suspicious. Why wouldn't Guérin meet his eyes?

Guérin was trying to keep d'Artagnan from seeing the implement being waved around aggressively by Colombe at the moment, which looked like a horsewhip but with multiple thin oil cords attached to the end. He didn't know what to say, but he feared d'Artagnan would know soon enough. He told him the easier part. "Colombe's arguing about the number of strokes."

That bloody _connard!_ d'Artagnan could hear the odd word from the bastard: "Totally insufficient... The General ... same opinion... far too lax... insupportable insolence... court martial..." It didn't sound good. He shifted his weight, desperate to move now. His back felt as if someone was dripping liquid tar on it and the pain from the bruising was spreading, deepening with every breath he took.

The hubbub had died down as everyone strained to hear what was going on, and in the hush d'Artagnan heard Colombe's voice again. "I'm happy to take over if you are unable, Captain Athos."

The intake of breath from a hundred musketeers meant d'Artagnan could not hear Athos' words but there was no mistaking the tone as he snapped back his response. He looked to Guérin for interpretation but the fair-haired musketeer was hurriedly returning to his place amongst the onlookers as all attention swung back towards d'Artagnan again. He swallowed, wishing he knew what was happening. Deciding that he, of all people, had the right to know he opened his mouth to ask, just as something sliced across his shoulders with a sudden wet _schick_ sound.

It felt like his skin had been torn apart and he couldn't contain a gasp of surprise. Oh, _Mon Dieu_! that hurt.

A second later another whisper of air gave him the tiniest warning to brace himself before a new slash tore into his skin. This time he managed to keep his mouth shut but even so another grunt of pain escaped him. Before he had time to recover there was a third stroke, then a fourth. The fifth sent him stumbling forwards, his whole body now screaming with the pain radiating out from his shoulders and back. He clutched desperately at the ropes, trying to muster the strength to push himself upright again, but the next stroke and the next landed in quick succession and his legs wouldn't cooperate; his back was just a cauldron of fire. He couldn't tell if his eyes were open, he couldn't hear if he was making a sound, all he could think about was trying to stay upright and not to sob.

There was a roaring in his ears now and it took a while – _schick_! – for him to recognise Porthos' voice, shouting something. "You haven't told him how many! Athos, he doesn't know!"

A pause in the strokes, then Athos' voice sounding strained, as if his throat was constricted. "Twenty-five."

Twenty five? Was that in total, or the number still to be given from the new whip? For d'Artagnan had no doubt he was being flogged with something different now. _Schick!_ This time he did groan, he was sure he had, his forehead jammed up against the post, the pain all too much now, every inch of his back radiating raw pain. _Schick. Schick. Schick._ He couldn't do it, his legs wouldn't hold him up any more, he was going to collapse in front of everyone... _schick_... No, dammit! Not in front of Colombe. _Schick._ He would not give in. He pushed himself away from the post again and stood as straight as he could, roaring silent defiance in every fibre of his being. _Schick._ He would not give in. He would not...

Hands encircled his and drew them back through the loops of rope. He struggled feebly for a second, still trying to hold himself upright, then recognised Porthos' familiar musky smell and let his body sag in relief. "Is it done?" he whispered, almost to himself. He hardly recognised the hoarse assent as Porthos freed his other hand and took him by the arms to turn him. "My shirt," d'Artagnan opened his eyes, finding blood dripping into one eye from somewhere. "I need my shirt."

"Not a good idea, my friend." Porthos sounded odd. d'Artagnan turned his head to look at him, hissing through his teeth as the movement pulled on his tortured skin. Porthos was white around his eyes, his mouth set in an angry line.

"I'm okay." d'Artagnan wanted to reassure him but his voice didn't sound right. "I just want my shirt." He couldn't think straight. His back was on fire, his wrists hurt, his face hurt, everything hurt. Guérin was there, holding out the water bottle again, and d'Artagnan tried to lift his hands to take it, but they were trembling too much. Guérin tutted and held the bottle to his lips. "My shirt," mumbled d'Artagnan again, pushing the water away. Everyone was still gawping at him and he couldn't bear the thought of all those eyes feasting on the evidence of his pain, his shame.

Guérin thrust the water bottle into his hands impatiently and grabbed his shirt from Fouchard who'd been holding it. "Perhaps you'd like your doublet, too?" he muttered, fiercely. d'Artagnan raised smile for him – "no, just the shirt," and then he took a step forward and went down like a sack of potatoes.

"Bugger off, everyone," he heard Porthos roaring as he clutched onto something – Porthos, probably, and tried to push himself up off his knees. "Guérin, get his other arm."

"I'm okay," he tried to tell them.

Somehow he was walking, with hands clamped around both his arms to hold him up, but moving his feet and taking his own weight. He lifted his chin, looking straight through everyone, searching only for one face. But Athos was not there. He hadn't actually seen him since the very beginning: it was as if a phantom had delivered the punishment. Or – a dreadful thought struck him. Had Colombe taken over when the whip had been changed? Suddenly it seemed very important to know.

"Who did it?"

"Did what?" Porthos, sounding stressed as they manoeuvred him back towards the Musketeer's part of camp.

"The second part of it."

The hands propelling him forward both stopped as Guérin and Porthos looked at each other. "He couldn't see," Guérin realised.

Porthos swore, quietly. "It was Athos, throughout." Sounding uncertain. Not sure if that was a good thing.

"I want to see him." More consternation going on over his head. "Please, Porthos, I need to see him."

"Guérin, go and get Etienne to meet us in our tent. Or Julien." A blink, then Guérin had gone from his side. "Are you sure, d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan leaned more heavily on Porthos and nodded. "I need to tell him I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about?"

"For making him ... Porthos, I'm so sorry..."

They were on the move again, more slowly with only Porthos to help him. d'Artagnan seemed to have lost all sense of balance but the only thing he could think about was the fire in his back and his equally burning need to see Athos.

"I don't think it's a good idea, lad. Not right now."

d'Artagnan felt anger coursing through him. He'd just been through hell, in front of the whole bloody camp! Why wouldn't Porthos help him? He pushed Porthos' hand away, suddenly furious at being held, at being steered.

At _not being listened_ to...

He clenched his jaw and lurched towards Athos' tent on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.

He stopped when he reached the doorway, suddenly aware of how he must look. Looking down he realised Guérin had draped his shirt across his shoulders, but his chest was uncovered and he could see a thin trail of blood curled around his ribs. Why was he bleeding? The whip wasn't supposed to cut, only to bruise. What had Athos used for the second part of the flogging?

Porthos was standing next to him, touching his arm lightly, silently begging him to come with him. d'Artagnan ignored him and knocked on the central pole. "Athos?"

There was a flurry from inside the tent, then Fouchard appeared, pulling the canvas flap open and stepping out. "d'Artagnan! How are you – what are you doing here?" He was whispering, looking agitated.

"I want to see Athos. I have to tell him – "

He didn't get any further before Athos was there, pushing Fouchard aside and stepping close to d'Artagnan. d'Artagnan felt only relief at being able to see him but before he could start to apologise Athos was in his face.

"Get out of my sight!"

d'Artagnan took a shaky step backwards, shocked to the core. Athos pursued him, his eyes a steely blue – "Go away. I don't want to see you anywhere near me!" He raised a hand to point at d'Artagnan's tent, and d'Artagnan flinched as if he thought Athos would strike him

"Athos, he just came to..." Porthos tried, stepping forward slightly as if to protect d'Artagnan.

But Athos was turning, pushing Fouchard out of his way so forcefully he nearly fell. Whipping the tent flap closed behind him he disappeared back into his tent.

"Shit..." muttered Porthos, looking at d'Artagnan. He didn't know what to do. He was desperate to go to Athos but one look at d'Artagnan's stricken expression told him he couldn't leave him. How much worse could this day get?

d'Artagnan felt sick. No, he was _going_ to be sick. He turned and stumbled towards his tent ignoring everything – the sweat dripping into his eyes, the pull of the shirt where it stuck to his back, Fouchard calling after him, Porthos swearing, Guérin running over with Etienne in tow: head down, eyes fixed only on the sanctuary of his tent.

Once inside he took a huge breath, as if he'd stopped taking in air for the last two minutes. The nauseous feeling returned and he retched, handing on to the tent pole for support, then crying out in spite of his best intentions because it hurt too much.

Suddenly there were gentle hands guiding him to the bed and a calm voice issuing instructions. "Guérin, warm water. Fouchard, in my bag there's a square of muslin, can you get it? d'Artagnan, just sit for a minute lad. We need to get this shirt off you. Bloody stupid idea to put this on, I don't know what you were thinking... Thanks, Guérin, just put it there."

Etienne began to run warm water down d'Artagnan's back and he arched away from it, hissing as it seared into his skin. "Sorry lad, it's just stuck in a couple of places. Get him some water to drink, Fouchard – he needs to keep the fluids up."

d'Artagnan just wanted to be alone. Without pause for thought he reached behind him and grabbed the collar of his shirt, wrenching it away from his shoulders with a vicious jerk.

"d'Artagnan, no! Oh, _merde_... You've... oh, lad."

d'Artagnan was biting his lip so fiercely he was drawing blood. "Just leave me alone, all of you. Please!" He didn't want any of them here. The only person he wanted near him at the moment was the man who didn't want to see him.

There was a rustle as Guérin and Fouchard left the tent. Then Etienne sighed. "It'll sort itself out. You just have to – "

"How?" He spat the word out. " _How_ will this get better?"

"Oy! You did this, don't get angry with me! You could have told Athos what was going on weeks ago and he would have –"

"I _did_! He told me to handle it."

A pause and a quiet curse.

"He was right, though. He's got enough to cope with. I should have been able to ... I should have – "

"Wait, you're blaming yourself now? Oh, you pig-headed Gascon." His voice softened again and d'Artagnan was unexpectedly reminded a little of Tréville. Etienne was a lot grumpier and more foul-mouthed, of course, but had the same blunt honesty and high expectations, and surprising moments of gentleness. Another wave of pain shot through the muscles in his back and he suddenly couldn't cope with any more.

"Etienne, please just go." He gritted his teeth, aware of sweat pooling on his brow and running down his face, and he ducked his head. "I'm on duty this morning. I need to –"

"You're not going anywhere lad, not today. Lie down now, let me sort you out."

Etienne pushed gently on d'Artagnan's arms and he finally allowed himself to sink onto the blanket, face down, wincing as the rough material met his face where it was bruised from contact with the post.

For a while he said nothing, concentrating on not crying out as Etienne wiped the blood and shirt fibres from his back.

There was a rustling when he'd finished, and the sound of a stopper being pulled from a bottle, and d'Artagnan braced himself, knowing what was coming. Etienne didn't believe in warning his victims and sure enough, his back was suddenly aflame as Etienne poured alcohol over it to sanitise the wounds. d'Artagnan curled his hands around the sides of the bed with a death grip, aware of the sound of his breath hissing out jerkily. He wanted to ask Etienne to stop, desperate for a moment to gather himself, but he didn't dare open his mouth for fear of what agonised sound he might make.

"Relax your muscles, lad, it won't hurt so much."

 _You bloody try relaxing when your back's on fire,_ thought d'Artagnan viciously.

Etienne chuckled as if d'Artagnan had spoken aloud. "Soon be done." He patted the skin dry, probably being gentle but every touch felt like a hammer blow.

"Is it bad?" d'Artagnan managed to ask, through gritted teeth.

Etienne's hand on his back stilled and d'Artagnan wanted to scream as the weight pressed on his bruised and torn flesh. "Forgot you can't see it. Could be worse. Athos didn't go easy on you, mind you, and the Cat tends to cut where the whip just bruises. But he was careful not to strike in the same place twice, mostly. Trickier with the Cat, of course."

d'Artagnan didn't understand. "Cat?"

"Cat-o-nine-tails? You've seen one haven't you? That's what Colombe insisted Athos use. Said the whip was for ladies, not soldiers. Didn't give Athos much choice, especially with the General looking on."

"He told me to get out." d'Artagnan blurted out the thought that was bouncing around his head like thunder circling.

"Just now? Aye, likely he did. Should'a left him to cool down. You couldn't see his face but we could. Bloody furious about everything, he was."

"I went to apologise..." It was almost a whisper.

"He'll take your apology, lad, just give him a wee while to cool down. No one wants to see that kind of punishment, let alone have to carry it out. Hard on him."

"I know! That's why I wanted to tell him how sorry I am."

"He knows. Not your fault. It'll soon be forgotten." Etienne started smoothing something cool onto d'Artagnan's back and he groaned first in pain at the touch, then with relief as it took some of the heat out of his skin.

"You'll have to take it easy for a few days. You've got a couple of deeper cuts where the lash hit the same spot more than once, and a dozen or more shallower cuts; the rest is just bruising. He's kept to your shoulders and upper back except for one that curls around your side – think you moved for that one. Did a good job, Athos did."

Etienne had obviously been watching closely, d'Artagnan realised. He felt strangely comforted by that, and even more so by the notion that Athos had been careful with his aim.

"Right, you're done. Should really put stitches a couple of the deeper ones, but the skin around is too swollen and it'll just tear. You'll just have to be careful or it'll keep pulling, and scar. The rest of it should heal okay. I'll check on you in a bit. Drink lots of water and get some rest."

He stood up, apparently not expecting a response, and d'Artagnan heard him walk briskly away.

He lay for a long while simply breathing, feeling the heat settle into his skin, and after a while he realised he was already getting used to it. He could deal with it.

What he didn't think he could bear was losing Athos. And if that happened, he'd lose Porthos too, because his loyalties would be stretched to the limit. The idea of _any_ kind of life without those two in it, let alone a life in the Musketeers, was simply too bleak to contemplate.

* * *

 _* I couldn't find out whether musketeers had anything to show their rank, but I needed some public, practical demonstration of d'Artagnan's loss of rank, and surely they would need some indication on their uniforms or how would others identify an officer? So I've assumed that there is a mark on their pauldron which would be cut off now d'Artagnan was demoted. If anyone knows, let me know!_

 _According to good old Wikipedia, apparently the navy cat-o-nine-tails rarely cut the flesh, being too heavy, but the thinner, lighter army version frequently did cut the skin, and this was a more traditional implement for punishment than the horse-whip Athos used to start the punishment._


	9. What's Left of Me

_I've loved reading your comments on the last chapter, thank you - especially those guests I can't reply to directly. Cheers, Debbie, for checking out the officer thing – I was sure they had to have some way of identifying officers but didn't realise pauldrons didn't exist at that time. I'm glad the BBC tweaked it though – can't imagine they would look quite so dashing in frock coats._

 _I love how much you all hate Colombe, but it will be a while before we find out what happens to him. Our three war-heroes have plenty to occupy themselves in the meantime, struggling with their own reactions ... A tiny bit of bad language from Porthos again, sorry. He's not one for holding back._

* * *

 **Chapter Eight: What's Left of Me**

He lay there, letting his breathing settle and his body get used to hosting the new injuries, trying to work out what to do. Nothing could undo the last few hours but he had to try to put it right... but he was out of ideas.

All he could think of was to talk to Athos, but he knew the time for talking was past. He should have told him straight away why he'd hit Colombe; that something had triggered the memories of his captivity. It might have been enough, without having to explain everything that had happened... But no. In the army, discipline was everything and the only thing that might have saved him would have been if Colombe had hit him first. Verbal provocation, no matter what lay behind it, was no excuse. Even if he had tried to explain, it would have put Athos in an impossible position and he'd have looked weak, and no doubt would have been in trouble himself from the Generals, maybe even lost his Captaincy...

Besides, d'Artagnan knew he couldn't have articulated anything last night, not with the panic still thundering through his body, and Colombe prowling in the background, and so many eyes watching not just him but Athos too, waiting to see how he dealt with his ill-disciplined junior officer. All he had thought of at the time was getting away from that circle of eyes, and not showing Athos up any more than he had already.

So he'd said nothing, and instead of making it easier for Athos he'd made everything so much worse.

How had Athos felt, knowing he had to carry out the punishment in front of everyone? Etienne's words echoed in his head. "Hard on him... bloody furious about it". No wonder he couldn't bear to look at d'Artagnan now.

He tried to imagine how it would be if their positions had been reversed, and he knew he could not have done it to Athos. All this told him, however, was that he would make a lousy commanding officer. Athos had done what he had to do with dignity and care, while d'Artagnan had let everyone down – Athos, Porthos, the Musketeer regiment, Tréville, even the King – what would he say, if he heard his "Champion" had been flogged for ill-discipline? And Constance? She was so proud of him but what would she think of him now?

The thoughts churned around and around in his head until he felt like screaming, but the small amount of self-respect he had left wouldn't allow him to make a sound. No doubt there were soldiers outside right now, pointing at his tent and discussing his flogging; he would probably be the talk of the camp for days.

Gradually he realised there was nothing he could do to put things right. Except wait, and hope that in time the attention moved on. Once he'd healed he would work even harder to prove himself in battle again, and try to win back Athos' approval, if not his friendship. He swiped a hand viciously across his face, ashamed of the tears pricking his eyes.

All he could do was to keep his head down and do nothing more to disappoint Athos. And stay out of Colombe's way.

He suddenly remembered that no one had responded when he'd told them he had guard duty. Someone would have sorted it out, wouldn't they? But if they were expecting him still, he didn't want to give anyone another excuse to criticise him.

Mind made up, he rolled to one side, gasping as one shoulder came into contact with the bed, and quickly got his feet to the ground so he could sit up. _Merde_! The surge of pain from the new position made him feel faint and he had to sit for a long while, waiting until everything settled down again. Then he got to his feet, thankful that no one had taken his boots off, and stooped carefully to pick up a clean shirt. He dropped it over his head, wincing as he noticed the raw marks rubbed into his wrists by the ropes. Etienne had not cleaned them, or the cut on his eyebrow that had leaked blood into the corner of his eye. Oh, no matter. He struggled to get his arms through the sleeves, feeling the fire re-ignite in his back but determined now to ignore the pain and get moving.

He didn't bother to do up the laces on his shirt, and bent carefully to pick up his weapons belt. Doing it up might be another matter, and as for his doublet...

He heard quiet voices outside and called out in relief. "Fouchard, is that you?"

A blond head appeared in the tent flap. "Did we wake you? Ah – clearly not. What the heck are you doing?" Guérin pushed in followed by Fouchard.

"Can you buckle my weapons belt?"

"No way! Metier's taken your guard duty and you are not going anywhere."

"I need a leak." It was true, he did need to relieve himself and he couldn't face an argument about taking duty.

"Oh. Well, you don't need weapons for that but I'll come with you if you – "

"I don't need a bloody escort!" Glaring at the pair of them he tried to sling his weapons belt around his waist and missed the end, too stiff to reach his arms behind his back.

"Oh, for f... Come here!" Guérin grabbed the end and buckled the belt loosely around his hips. "I suppose you want your doublet too?"

Fouchard looked horrified when d'Artagnan nodded. "Are you mad? He can't wear that!"

"Are you going to argue with him?" asked Guérin, sounding amused. He handed the doublet to d'Artagnan who averted his eyes from the raw edge of leather at the bottom of his pauldron, where the mark of a sub-lieutenant's rank had been sliced off. He took it resolutely, put one arm through the sleeve then looked helplessly at Guérin, who tutted and shovelled d'Artagnan unceremoniously into it, doing the chest straps up loosely then patting him gently on the shoulder. "I'm off duty so I'll be around. Don't do anything stupid."

d'Artagnan snorted. He would be impressed if he made it to the latrines without falling over, never mind doing anything stupid.

Outside he was aware of heads turning his way and conversations stopping as he passed. He kept his head up and nodded to anyone whose eyes he caught, determined to front it out. He had done something stupid and been punished. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

Once he'd relieved himself, he turned and looked across camp. It seemed an awfully long way to the gate, where he was supposed to be on duty. He could just make out the guards at the post – Metier and someone he didn't recognise. Could he really make it over there?

Yes, dammit. He wasn't injured, or ill, just sore. Concentrating carefully on his feet, he plodded slowly towards the gate.

When he finally reached them, Metier refused to let d'Artagnan take back his duty but the other soldier, who d'Artagnan didn't know, took off with alacrity when d'Artagnan offered. "What the heck are you trying to prove?" asked Metier, incredulously.

Good question, thought d'Artagnan grimly. He was remembering that he hadn't eaten since – when? Yesterday evening, a few mouthfuls of stew, very little else. He hadn't slept. And he was in a world of pain. Not the best way to feel when standing guard for the next five hours. Why had he thought this was a good idea? And he'd forgotten to bring any water with him. It was nearly winter but the sun was still warm in the middle of the day and his face felt hot and sweaty.

Metier gave up expecting a response and handed him his own water bottle, grunting when d'Artagnan thanked him. "You're not invincible, you know. You need to slow down," he told the Gascon sourly.

"What do you ... You think I'm showing off or something?" He was so far off the mark it was almost laughable.

"Well, aren't you? Monsieur ' _I can still do my duty even after a public flogging'_?" He spat the words out, stunning d'Artagnan.

"That's not..." d'Artagnan stopped, and shut his eyes. What was the point?

There was an uncomfortable silence.

"What is it, then?" asked Metier, more gently.

"I just – I'm frightened!" He couldn't believe he was admitting this to anyone, least of all someone like Metier, who'd been a Musketeer for years and had always been quite aloof.

"What of?"

He couldn't seem to stop himself. "Of ... not being ... strong enough."

Metier stared at him. "You? For Christ sakes, d'Artagnan, you're bloody indestructible! Everything bloody bounces off you!"

It was d'Artagnan's turn to stare. It didn't feel like that to him.

"Is that what you think?"

"It's what everyone thinks, you idiot. Everyone wants to be next to you in a battle." He paused, considering, then corrected himself. "You or Porthos."

d'Artagnan suddenly started laughing. That was more like it!

It was at this moment, with both of them now laughing, neither really sure at what, that Colombe chose to ride out of the gate. Stopping between the two guards, he sat looking down at d'Artagnan, a strange smile playing about his lips. "It seems your captain didn't beat you hard enough, boy. Maybe you can run an errand for me after your guard duty?"

Metier spoke up immediately. "I'll do it, Sir."

"No thanks." Colombe didn't even look at him. "I've asked the Gascon."

" _The Gascon_ has a name."

All three of them jumped at the icy tone of the new voice, and d'Artagnan almost smiled before remembering what Athos had said the last time he'd seen him.

Lieutenant Colombe turned in the saddle to look at the Musketeer Captain, who had walked up, unnoticed, in his wake. "I'm still waiting for an apology so you'll forgive me if I can't be bothered with his name."

"I did apologise!" d'Artagnan said heatedly. "I should never have lashed out and I told you so straight away, as soon as I realised who I had hit."

"You didn't know it was him?" asked Athos, sharply.

"No. He took me by surprise – it was just instinct."

"So it wasn't personal?"

"No!" Athos should know him better than that!

There was a silence, then Athos looked at the mounted man. "Don't let us keep you," he said, pleasantly.

Colombe muttered something indistinct, kicked his horse viciously and with a squeal the animal took off at a fast canter, kicking up a dust flurry in his wake.

"Carry on." Athos turned and walked away, leaving two slightly confused Musketeers in his wake.

"Was he checking up on you?" asked Metier. d'Artagnan shrugged, forgetting that shrugging should be bottom of his list of gestures right now. His gasp of pain brought Metier's head up sharply. "Oh, sit down before you fall down," he said irritably, gesturing at the log that formed part of the barrier by the gate. "I'll let you know if any more officers turn up."

d'Artagnan sank gratefully onto the log, and wondered how much longer before he could go and lie down again.

* * *

It felt like five days, not five hours, before they were relieved, but eventually they were walking back across the camp, Metier slowing his pace to accompany d'Artagnan. As they parted company Metier said gruffly: "You're a good man, d'Artagnan. We're all glad you're back."

d'Artagnan stopped, taken aback by the unexpected compliment, but by the time he'd turned to thank Metier, he'd disappeared into the mess tent.

d'Artagnan made his way slowly back to the tent he shared with Porthos, finding it thankfully empty when he entered. He wasn't looking forward to explaining his next action to Porthos but he'd seen how things were with Athos earlier and he'd made a decision during the long hours of guard duty on the gate. Porthos would be torn between loyalty to Athos and protectiveness towards d'Artagnan, but he shouldn't really be sharing an officer's tent now he'd lost his commission, and he didn't want to wait until someone pointed it out and made Porthos enforce that rule. He would make it easy for the big man by moving out voluntarily.

He tried bending to open the chest containing his few possessions, but it pulled horribly on his back. Suspecting that his shirt was sticking, he gave up and simply gathered up his blankets and pillow, and slipped out again, feeling guilty. He should find Porthos and explain, but first he desperately needed to lie down.

He made his way to the tent which Fouchard shared with four others, knowing there was a spare bed there at the moment while San Marle was recovering from a leg wound. Most of the Musketeers were still eating lunch, but he found Fouchard in the tent, sharpening his blade. He looked up in surprise to where d'Artagnan hesitated in the entrance, clutching his bedding.

"d'Artagnan – are you okay? What are you – Oh, no. No, no, no!"

"Just until Athos calms down. Please, Fouchard?"

"Porthos will be furious!"

"Porthos will be grateful. Once he's finished shouting at me." d'Artagnan sank onto the spare bed, nearest the tent flap – always the least favourite spot in winter. "Can you wake me for evening muster?" He manoeuvred carefully until he was lying face down on the bed, and resolutely shut his eyes before Fouchard could protest further.

* * *

 _Six hours earlier_

Porthos had been shocked to the core when Athos yelled at d'Artagnan to get out, straight after the flogging. He'd known how shaken Athos was; knew it was a bad idea for d'Artagnan to go to him so soon; but he hadn't expected such a vitriolic response from a man who barely ever raised his voice. From the stricken look on d'Artagnan's face, neither had he.

Torn between two old friends who both desperately needed support, he cursed. Where was bloody Aramis now? Much as it pained him, he knew Athos would tolerate no one but a close friend at the moment, so he'd sent Fouchard and Guérin after d'Artagnan while he stayed with Athos.

One look at the man told him it was pointless trying to talk to him. His face was white with anger, his eyes pinched as if in pain, his jaw clenched. He'd picked up a book and had it open but Porthos doubted very much if he even knew whether it was the right way up.

Porthos had taken with him the brandy d'Artagnan had brought him from Paris, knowing Athos had finished his own when sharing it around the campfire a few days ago. He poured Athos a measure and stared at the amber liquid, remembering the feeling of relief and euphoria when he'd seen d'Artagnan return looking more like himself. Was that only a few weeks ago? How had it all gone so wrong?

He handed the cup to Athos who took it mechanically, held it for a while then hurled it to the floor.

Anger flared in Porthos. It wasn't just for the waste of the brandy, but for wasting the gift that d'Artagnan had given him. None of this was the lad's fault; it was that prick Colombe's doing from start to finish – Porthos had no doubt that he'd deserved the punch from d'Artagnan – and the bloody army regulations. d'Artagnan hadn't deserved the punishment and he didn't deserve this reaction from Athos, and it was time someone told him so.

"Athos, it wasn't the boy's fault; that bloody... "

"Don't." The voice was clipped and low: raw emotion held at bay by tight control.

Silence. "That's it?" Porthos was incredulous now. "You're not going to discuss any bit of this?"

"Nothing you can say will change what happened, or how I feel."

Porthos recognised the truth of that but he had to try.

"But it's wrong! I know why you 'ad to do it but we can't let Colombe get away with it. 'e set d'Artagnan up and 'e doesn't deserve it, not after everythin' else the lad's been through. We have to sort that sleezy bastard out!"

"There's nothing to be done."

"So you're just going to sit there and do nothin'?"

"So it seems."

"Athos, that's just – "

"Enough!" A flicker of emotion leaked into Athos' voice but Porthos was too wound up to hear it.

"It's not 'enough', Athos, you owe it to him to – "

"I owe him _nothing_ , Porthos!" He spat the words out through gritted teeth. "He is a _soldier_ first, here, and he must follow the rules, just like everyone else. I cannot make an exception! And I cannot 'sort out' that bloody man – and neither can you, not without bringing the whole regiment into disrepute, and causing all kinds of ruptures within the army, because you know damn well people would take sides. There are more important things at stake here than one man, so there's nothing else to say – and if you persist with this conversation I will ask you to leave."

Porthos stared at him, fists clenching and unclenching, then simply turned on his heel and stalked out.

Athos sat for a long time, a very long time, staring at the book in his hands, then finally laid it down carefully, dropped his face into his hands, and began to weep, silently: for d'Artagnan's innocence, and Porthos' faith in him, both of which were surely now lost forever, and for himself, for the depths this war had brought him to.

* * *

It took far longer than he cared to admit to pull himself together. There was a time when he contemplated just walking out. The temptation just to saddle Roger and ride away from them all was almost overwhelming, but then he remembered the look on d'Artagnan's face when he'd told him to get out, and he knew he couldn't leave on that note or he would scar d'Artagnan for life – if he hadn't already done so. Literally.

He groaned, dropping his head into his hands again, but this time with a murderous scowl on his face. How the hell was he going to put this right?

His innate sense of duty and obligation eventually forced him to his feet: he wouldn't solve anything by skulking in here.

He ran a hand down his face and through his hair, squared his shoulders, straightened his doublet and belt, and flung the tent flap aside.

Striding out more purposefully than he felt, he was startled to see his tent pretty much surrounded by musketeers. Lost in his thoughts he hadn't heard the unusual activity outside: whereas they normally congregated around the campfire when off-duty, this morning they had apparently decided it was a good idea to drag benches and logs to the area right in front of his tent, where around thirty men had settled to clean tack, sharpen weapons, and chat. There was even a spot of hair cutting going on. And behind him – he turned – yes, behind him was Porthos, wielding an axe as if he wished it was smashing down on the head of Colombe, not the logs he was chopping viciously into firewood.

When he saw Athos emerge, he finished his swing and passed the axe to the musketeer stacking the logs and wandered his way, clearly trying to look casual. Athos scowled to himself. What the heck did they think they were doing? Were they keeping an eye on him – or waiting for the next instalment of the drama?

Porthos arrived in front of him and eyed him without speaking. Athos felt a childish wish to see which of them could keep silent longest, but quashed it. Besides, there really was no doubting the outcome: Porthos wouldn't last two minutes. He frowned, noticing that his spirits seemed to have lifted slightly since leaving his tent. He couldn't figure out why – nothing had changed – but it seemed that just seeing his men around, giving their silent support, was helping to settle him.

Was that the reason they were there? He supposed it must be, if his instincts were still true. But surely they must hate him for punishing d'Artagnan so unfairly. Everyone knew the trouble Colombe had been giving the Gascon and how unjust the situation was, so why were they all here?

He found Porthos answering his unspoken question. "Seems everyone wants to be close this mornin'. 'ope we didn't disturb you."

"Indeed." His usual dry response seemed wrong right now but he didn't know how else to be. "How is d'Artagnan?"

"Etienne thinks it will mostly 'eal without scarrin' an' you did a good job."

 _Oh, really? That was a good morning's work?_ Something must have shown in his face for Porthos caught him by the elbow, looking contrite. "Sorry... you know what I mean though."

Athos sighed. Yes, he did. "Is he in his tent?"

Porthos looked surprised. "No – 'e's on duty."

"WHAT?"

A sudden hush fell over their end of camp as all eyes swivelled their way. "He 'ad guard duty, remember? Metier took it for 'im, but 'e went over not long ago and insisted. I think 'e swopped with the other guard in the end an' Metier stayed with 'im..." But Athos had gone already, striding towards the east gate with a grim expression. Porthos sighed, feeling everything was spiralling out of his control.

As it happened, Athos arrived in time to hear Lt. Colombe taunting d'Artagnan, which was as well for the Gascon or Athos might have unleashed all his bad humour on him for being stupid enough to take guard duty unnecessarily. Instead he felt a surge of protectiveness towards him, and took pleasure in sending the lieutenant on his way. Feeling slightly better humoured, Athos did the rounds of his men then headed for an officers' meeting, thankful, for once, to be able to lose himself in duty and obligation.

* * *

Porthos was uncharacteristically short-tempered as he headed for lunch. In the mess tent he took his portion of bread and meat unenthusiastically and found an empty table where he could fume in peace. He hadn't seen d'Artagnan since he'd spotted him heading for guard duty, and he was feeling guilty about that, mad at Athos for being so distant and correct about everything, and unusually pessimistic about the future. It would take a lot of work to heal these schisms and at the moment he didn't see how he could do it.

Someone plopped into the seat opposite him and he looked up hopefully before realising it was only Guérin, who chuckled.

"What?" Porthos suspected he sounded irascible but he didn't care.

"You were hoping I was someone else."

Porthos huffed and didn't answer.

"He's okay, you know."

"'e's been _flogged._ "

"Yes, and he's okay," Guérin repeated patiently.

Porthos met his eyes. "Really?"

"Yes. He's just worried about you, and Athos, and letting everyone down..."

Porthos literally growled, and Guérin laughed. "I know, we've all told him off about that. Everyone knows what happened, and who's fault it really is. How's Athos doing?"

Porthos shrugged. Guérin looked at him sympathetically, then trapped Porthos' hand where he was stabbing his fork viciously into the table-top. Porthos sighed. "Athos is keepin' it all under wraps, like 'e always does."

It was Guérin's turn to look angry. "That bloody man's got a lot to answer for!"

"Who – Athos?" Porthos half rose from his seat, ready to explode across the table in defence of the very man he was angry with himself.

"No! Colombe of course! I tell you Porthos, there's more than one man muttering about making him pay for what he did to d'Artagnan, to the musketeers."

Porthos looked up sharply. It was one thing for him to mouth off to Athos, but quite another to find the men were talking about it. "Oh, no mate! You need to slap down any talk like that smartish, Guérin."

Guérin flushed, and Porthos guessed he'd been quicker to join the grumbles than quash them. He stood up abruptly and spoke quietly, leaning across the table to emphasise his words. "Doesn't matter what we think. We're Musketeers an' we follow our captain. d'Artagnan knows 'e did a stupid thing, and 'e took his punishment with dignity. Anyone takes the law into 'is own 'ands just undoes everything 'e went through this morning. So I don't want to 'ear any talk about retribution. Are we clear?"

Guérin nodded, looking down. "I'll pass the message on."

"See you do." Porthos patted him on the shoulder and turned away.

* * *

The mood was subdued at evening muster, with none of the usual energy and gentle back-row teasing that marked the Musketeers on a good day. It seemed everyone was looking sideways at d'Artagnan, Porthos or Athos.

d'Artagnan kept his head down, partly because he didn't want to make things difficult for either Athos or Porthos, and partly because he was in so much pain by now that he could barely speak. He wanted nothing more than to disappear and sleep, and only looked up when Athos named him as one of those off duty until the morning, noticing miserably that Athos didn't even glance his way.

Porthos, as usual, did the rounds of all the musketeers on duty that evening so it was after midnight before he turned in – to find d'Artagnan missing from his cot, along with his bedding. Exhausted after the previous night's lack of sleep, and knowing that he could hardly search every tent for his missing tent-mate, all he could do was slump onto his bed, roll himself in his blanket and try to relax enough to sleep.

He was so tired that he did sleep – but after an hour or so he found himself wide awake again, listening in vain for the sound of d'Artagnan's light breathing or gentle snores. The intense silence in the tent seemed to close in on him and after another hour of tossing and turning he eventually gave up and stalked out of the tent, feeling anxious and furious with the Gascon at the same time.

He sat by the fire for a while, stewing over everything and finding to his surprise that his main emotion was anger with, of all people, Aramis. He'd missed him in a hundred different ways since they'd left him at the Abbey in Douai, but never more so than today: for not being there.

Time, and the ever-engulfing demands of the war, had gradually driven Aramis from his thoughts until he'd got used to managing without him. But today, when both Athos and d'Artagnan were suffering and neither could look the other in the eye: today he'd needed Aramis; longed for his common sense, his ability always to look beyond the moment towards something better ahead. And he hadn't been here.

He shivered, feeling the chill of the middle night settling into his skin, and rose, thinking to return for a blanket if not to his bed. Just in time to see, beyond his own tent, the shadow of a man emerging from another tent and heading unsteadily for the perimeter of the camp. A man whose shape he recognised immediately. Stooped more than normal, and moving stiffly, but unmistakably the outline of one very stubborn Gascon.

Porthos watched him climb the low rise beyond the tents and settle himself at the base of a tree near the top. Then he sighed, fetched his blanket from his tent, and followed.

* * *

d'Artagnan was in his own world, or trying to be. He'd been so shattered from emotion, pain and lack of sleep that he'd fallen asleep immediately after muster, oblivious to the others coming in at different times. But he'd woken instantly when Fouchard shook his shoulder and hissed at him to shut up before he woke the whole bloody camp. Blinking blearily at him, d'Artagnan slowly realised eyes were glaring at him from every cot in the tent. "What's going on?" he whispered.

"You were shouting in your sleep. For quite a while." Fouchard's tone was sympathetic but edgy.

d'Artagnan couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming, and was content not to know. His memories of his treatment at the hands of the Spanish were vivid enough whilst awake: he had no desire to remember how they twisted into his nightmares. He sighed, waved an apology at the tent in general and thanked Fouchard.

When sleep was still eluding him an hour later he knew this wasn't going to work. He still felt light-headed with lack of sleep but couldn't relax enough to drift off again, wary of disturbing everyone again if he dreamt.

He could rarely remember his dreams, for which he was eternally grateful, but he knew he'd disturbed Aramis many times a night when recuperating in the monastery. Aramis' gentle presence and touch had helped him to the point where he usually dropped off again quickly, even here, using the breathing techniques Aramis had taught him. But the added layer of guilt over what he'd put Athos through, worry about his friendship with both Athos and Porthos, and anxiety about disturbing the tent again were all now conspiring to keep him very, very awake.

How had it all gone so wrong?

He'd been so anxious to get back to the front once he'd started to recover in Douai, and although he was apprehensive about his ability to be effective on the battlefield after everything he'd been through, it had never occurred to him that he would have trouble fitting back into everyday camp life.

Now he was adding to Athos' worries instead of helping him, and there was a gulf between them that he feared might mean he'd never be close enough to Athos to rebuild the trust. Athos hadn't even looked his way at muster and – _merde_! He jumped violently as Porthos sat down beside him.

"Sorry." Porthos didn't sound very sorry.

d'Artagnan's heart was pounding. He was technically within the camp environs, but close enough to the perimeter to need to keep more alert than this. He hadn't heard Porthos approach at all!

"What are you doing?" It was a pretty inane question – Porthos was wrapping a blanket gently around his shoulders, then claimed a corner for himself and settled down, clearly ready for a chat.

"Thought you might want some company."

d'Artagnan couldn't deny that he was both more comfortable now, with the blanket cushioning his shoulders, and warmer. It occurred to him that perhaps not all of this was due to the blanket.

He let out a long breath. What would he do without Porthos? Suddenly overwhelmed with love for this man, who had always had his back, literally and figuratively, he leaned to his left and settled his shoulder against Porthos' before answering his question. "If it's your company, then – always."

Porthos grunted, sounding pleased. There was a companionable silence for a while before d'Artagnan asked: "Why are you out here? Is everything okay?"

"Every _one_ is okay." He meant Athos, just as he knew d'Artagnan had. "Just couldn' sleep with all that silence in my tent."

"Oh."

"Why are _you_ out 'ere?"

"Same. Only the tent was too noisy. Most of which was me, apparently."

"Oh?"

"Fouchard said I'd been shouting in my sleep. Woke the whole tent." He paused, looking at Porthos' solid outline against the night sky. "Do I do that a lot?"

Porthos chuckled. "Quite a bit."

"Oh... I'm sorry, I didn't – "

"No need to apologise. I dare say you've got a few bad memories floatin' around that 'ead of yours. Got to come out of there somehow, an' if you won't talk about it – "

"I _can't_. I'm s-sorry, Porthos. I just c-can't. Not here. Not yet."

"I know. I'm not blamin' you, lad. Just saying."

After another pause d'Artagnan asked, cautiously: "Don't I disturb you, then?"

"Nah. Got used to it."

"I didn't know. I don't remember."

"Thought as much. I usually stop you, soon's I 'ear you startin' up."

"But you must lose so much sleep!" d'Artagnan was mortified.

"Like I said, I'm used to it. Worried me, when you first got back, but I found if I just lean over an' prod you, you settle again an' we're both back asleep in a couple of minutes. It's not a problem, whelp."

The Inséparables' old nickname surfaced again and d'Artagnan, for all his efforts to prove he was their equal, found he didn't mind.

"How's your back?" Porthos finally felt able to ask one of the questions that had been worrying him, and Athos, all day.

"It's not too bad. I know Athos took care, and Etienne says most of it will heal without scarring." He didn't mention that first blow, the force of which had frightened him. It had betrayed Athos' fury at being put in this position, but he'd felt Athos settle, after that; felt the precision of his blows. "How is Athos?"

Porthos sighed. "I won't lie, 'e's strugglin' with it. But 'e's not angry with you – you know that, don't you?"

"I don't know why not. It's all my fault, all of thi-"

" _None_ of this is your fault!" Porthos sat up so quickly d'Artagnan nearly overbalanced as his shoulder prop disappeared.

"Of course it is! I should have..."

"You are as bad as each other!" Porthos flung his hands in the air, reminding d'Artagnan suddenly of Aramis. "Athos blamin' 'imself, you the same – I wish _one_ of you could think clearly. The only man to blame 'ere is that bloody lieutenant whass'is'name. And the _bloody_ army regulations we 'ave to abide by 'ere, stead of Musketeer discipline."

There was sense in what Porthos said, d'Artagnan could admit, but he still felt awful, and knew he would go on feeling that way until he'd cleared the air with Athos. He was determined to speak with him in the morning – even if he had to stalk him.

When he said as much though, Porthos exclaimed " _Merde_ , I forgot about that. We 'ave to get some sleep or we'll be useless in the mornin'. Word came through late: we're fightin' tomorrow. Some new General on 'is way 'ere, apparently. Come on." And he held out a hand to help d'Artagnan to his feet.

After a quick detour past Fouchard's tent to collect d'Artagnan's bedding, against protests firmly ignored by Porthos ("Don't bloody argue. Told you, I can't be doin' with the silence...") d'Artagnan was back in his own tent, dropping face down onto his bed with a heartfelt sigh and, in the seconds before he succumbed to sleep, thanking God, again, for Porthos.

* * *

 _Next time we're back in the 'now' in Paris with a short interlude, but there are plenty more questions to answer so we'll soon be back in the thick of the war._


	10. Interlude

_A short breather which will hopefully answer some of your questions about how Athos and Constance reacted back in the "now", before we dive back into battle. I love all your speculations; they reassure me if I've hit the mark in later chapters, and nudge me to pick up a loose thread if I've missed one. Hopefully in time all your questions will be answered and I will try to update more frequently to reward you for your enthusiasm!_

 **Interlude**

The Wren had filled up, almost unnoticed by any of those gathered at their usual table in the shadows at the back. The barkeep's daughter Nicole danced around her patrons, collecting glasses and delivering drinks, but didn't disturb the five of them, and although there were plenty of Musketeers amongst the lunch-time crowd, none did more than glance their way. There was no mistaking the intensity of the discussion going on there.

Porthos had been telling most of this part, watching Athos and d'Artagnan carefully as he recounted those dark days. d'Artagnan seemed relaxed enough, occasionally chipping in a recollection or correction of his own, but his fingers fiddled constantly with his goblet or picked at a rough patch on the table, betraying his underlying tension, and as for Athos...

Athos had barely spoken since they'd taken their seats. He'd pushed his chair slightly back from the table and commandeered a wine bottle for himself, although Porthos was pretty sure he had not yet taken a sip from his cup.

Porthos ground to a halt and spared a glance now for Constance and Aramis, trying to judge their reactions. Neither of them had heard any of this tale, although Constance, surely, must have seen the scars on d'Artagnan's back. He tried to remember how obvious they were now, and realised that, 18 months on, the marks would be faint. To those who'd been there they were unmistakable, but to anyone else they were probably lost amongst all the other battle scars the Gascon sported.

There was a long silence, all the more intense for the exuberant noise of the customers around their table.

Eventually d'Artagnan spoke up, sounding slightly uncomfortable. "Porthos, maybe some more wine?"

Porthos looked around. No one had drunk much but ... perhaps the whelp was right. It might help to change the mood; at the moment Athos didn't look like joining the conversation any time soon. Obligingly he rose and made his way to the bar, making sure he could still see his friends as he waited to be served. He knew that Athos and d'Artagnan had made their peace long ago, but coming back to Paris had been hard for d'Artagnan, and after the revelations of the other day they had all felt out of kilter. If d'Artagnan was dreaming again, and Athos brooding...

He cursed as the pieces dropped into place in his mind and he realised why they were here again, listening to another instalment of their war stories but driven this time by the impetus of Athos' emotions rather than d'Artagnan's. He knew now what was at the heart of it, and turned without a thought for the drinks, heading back to the table at a rush.

No one looked up as he flung himself back into his seat. Suddenly unsure whether to push it or just let it go, Porthos hesitated, looking around. Constance was staring at d'Artagnan as if she'd never seen him before, and Aramis was watching Athos closely, a look of utter compassion on his face. Porthos' tension eased a fraction as Aramis caught his eye and smiled. It was a rueful smile that said "What a mess!" with a hint of apology, of "Sorry I wasn't there" and a raised eyebrow to hint at "Is there more?" Porthos shrugged as if Aramis had spoken aloud, and they both looked back at Athos.

Constance had caught the silent communication between the pair and rose to the bait instantly. "Now what?" she snapped. d'Artagnan jumped, looking from one to the other; he'd been fiddling still with his goblet, oblivious to Porthos' coming and going.

"What do you mean?" he asked, sounding confused.

"What am I missing now? It's like pulling teeth with a pair of tweezers! For pity's sake, if you've got something to say, any of you, could you please just _say_ it!" She glared around the table tutting in exasperation.

"Constance," d'Artagnan began tentatively, and she swung to him.

"Yes? What's the matter, am I intruding on something? I mean, it's bad enough that I'm supposed to just sit here calmly and listen when you tell me that Athos _flogged_ you!" She hesitated, looking apologetically at Athos' silent figure, then rushed on: "But now I'm supposed to ignore whatever undercurrent is going on, because none of you are talking but I know you're doing that _thing_ where you don't talk and I don't understand!"

In her agitation she'd raised her voice and d'Artagnan caught her hands, which she was waving flamboyantly around the table, and gently hushed her.

She pulled her hands away from his violently, unable to speak for a moment. Seeing the love and apology in his eyes only made her angrier. He'd kept _all_ this to himself, _all_ this time! He'd had no one to speak to, or no chance to speak of it. She understood why; he'd barely been able to tell them about it here, in the safety of the garrison; but that meant he'd suffered all that pain alone. And it had led to Athos having to flog him, and she couldn't bear the thought of her husband, the man she loved with all of her heart and soul, being flogged like that when she was not there for him. She'd seen the faint scars on his back, hidden beneath so many other old wounds, and thought nothing of them, yet it seemed they had hidden perhaps the deepest wound of all.

Yet she could see in the tight lines around Athos' eyes just how hard that had been on her oldest Musketeer friend, and she hadn't been there for him either. Or for dear Porthos, she thought, beginning to realise how tough it must have been on him, too.

It might have happened nearly two years ago but something had triggered the hurt that now hooded Athos' eyes, and she couldn't bear the muddle of emotions flooding her heart at the mess these men had struggled through.

She realised her eyes were full of unshed tears and she looked down to find Aramis pushing a handkerchief into her hands. Wiping at her eyes she looked up and saw d'Artagnan's expression as he waited, looking worried but calm. He was always so patient with her, she realised. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's just a lot to take in."

d'Artagnan took her hand again, and this time she let him, squeezing his fingers tightly with hers to signal that she was listening now. He smiled suddenly, that wide smile that told of his love and joy, the one that always lifted her spirits and which she had not seen nearly enough recently. And when her own slow smile spread across her face in response, he kissed her hand briefly then composed his features and tried to explain.

"It's not really about the flogging."

She waited a moment, but he looked around as if unsure how to continue, so she demanded impatiently: "Well what is it about then?"

Unexpectedly Aramis answered her, after first glancing at Porthos as if checking that he had the right of it. "From what I've heard, my friends, you both handled an impossible situation with great dignity. d'Artagnan did not blame Athos, knowing he was obliged to follow conventional army disciplinary sanctions. However, after what d'Artagnan told us the other day, Athos now understands precisely why you reacted to Colombe so violently. He is, I imagine, re-thinking, and regretting, the punishment he carried out."

This was exactly what Porthos had realised when he went to order more wine, and the big man nodded his agreement at Aramis' explanation for Athos' obvious discomfort. Aramis continued: "Erroneously, obviously: d'Artagnan's motivation was irrelevant to the misdemeanour so Athos' hands were tied, but –"

"But I would have found a way around it, had I known. Had you trusted me with the truth of it."

Athos' voice was quiet and strained, but even though d'Artagnan was glad finally to hear from his brooding Captain, he couldn't help but flare up at his words. "Trust works both ways, Athos! Did it ever occur to you that I needed _you_ to trust _me_? To trust that I had good reason not to explain? To give me the benefit of the doubt, perhaps?" He thumped the table with his hand, knocking his goblet in his agitation, and now it was Constance's turn to try to pacify him.

Athos slowly raised his head, for the first time since they'd settled at the table. He looked stricken: d'Artagnan's words had hit their mark. It seemed this was indeed exactly what Athos was regretting.

Porthos exchanged glances with Aramis as Athos carefully placed his still-untouched goblet on the table, picked up his hat, and rose with dignity. "My apologies, Madame, gentlemen, but I need some air." And with casual grace, he turned and wound his way through the crowd.

"d'Artagnan, are you okay?" Aramis touched the Gascon cautiously on the shoulder.

d'Artagnan dropped his head into his hands, running his fingers fiercely through his hair, and sighed. "I don't know," he answered honestly, for once. "I shouldn't have said ..."

"Men!" Constance pushed herself up crossly, smoothing her skirts and then scowling as they all looked up in surprise. "You worry about this and that, and blame yourselves for things that are beyond your control, but do you ever _talk_ about what bothers you? No! Or not until it's far too late, and meanwhile you fret, and brood, and storm off..."

"That was hardly storming, Constance –"

"– and expect everything to magically solve itself!" With that, she bustled out after Athos, looking determined.

d'Artagnan groaned. "Too much to expect any sympathy," he muttered, as he pushed himself to his feet and set off after her. "Don't waste the wine!" he called over his shoulder.

"Do you think we should ..." Aramis began, then grinned as Porthos rose and carefully tipped Athos' untouched wine back into one of the bottles.

"Yep."

"Good. Just what I was thinking." Aramis flung an arm around Porthos' shoulders and snagged another couple of bottles of wine from the counter as they left the Wren together, calling out to Nicole that he would settle up later.

"Where do you suppose..."

"Athos will've headed for his office, so..."

"Of course."

They caught up with d'Artagnan dithering at the top of the stairs to the balcony outside Athos' office at the Garrison. "Alright?" asked Porthos as they reached him.

"Yes, I think so. As long as Athos is." His look of apprehension morphed into one of determination as he pushed open the door to Athos' office.

Inside they found Athos sitting at his desk, and Constance rummaging in his cupboards. When they entered she turned with a look of impatience on her face, which cleared when she noticed the wine bottles held by Porthos and Aramis. "Nice to see someone has some sense!" she exclaimed, retrieving Tréville's best glasses and handing them to Porthos.

d'Artagnan sighed again, feeling he was somehow the villain of the piece today. Aramis picked up on this too, and caught Constance by the elbow as she passed him a glass. "Any idea why you're mad at d'Artagnan?" he murmured quietly.

She glared at him, then softened as she considered. "I suppose..." She trailed off, then looked at her husband's hopeful expression. "Oh... It's all these secrets!"

"Then let us not have any more." Athos sounded slightly more like himself now, although he was rubbing at his temples as if to dispel a headache.

Porthos snagged a couple of glasses from Constance, nudging her towards d'Artagnan, and plonked himself down on Athos' bed, leaving Aramis to prop a hip against the desk.

Constance went to sit on the windowsill next to d'Artagnan, and looked at him expectantly. "Well then?" she demanded, when no one moved to pick up the metaphorical baton Athos had tossed in the air.

d'Artagnan screwed up his face. "I'm not sure what more there is to ..."

"No? How about explaining how you and Athos patched things up without ever talking about it? Because it's a pretty major thing to do – to flog your friend in front of the entire regiment, if not half the southern army by the sound of it! And for something that wasn't his fault – I'm guessing Athos felt pretty guilty about it –"

"Actually he felt mostly angry with d'Artagnan, for not explaining," put in Porthos helpfully.

"And it seems d'Artagnan was angry with Athos for not trusting him to have good reason. So how in heaven's name did you all get beyond that?"

"I wasn't angry, Constance," d'Artagnan objected. "Not then. In fact I didn't know I felt angry until just now, in the Wren. I think back then I was just... mortified. And sad, I suppose. I felt like I'd lost everything – Athos' regard, and my reputation amongst the regiment. But the thing was, we just had to carry on." d'Artagnan's voice was low, remembering. "None of us had a choice. We had nowhere to go, and a war to fight. And that helped us. I didn't blame Athos, and although he was angry with me – "

"I still am. Even more so, now I know what lay behind your action. The punishment was completely inappropriate and you should have told me." Athos's words were blunt, his tone acid, and d'Artagnan sighed yet again.

He knew perfectly well Athos wasn't really angry with him; more likely angry with himself for not finding out the truth, or suspecting, at the time, but he would have to work that out for himself. d'Artagnan had long since outgrown his own feelings of embarrassment and shame at the flogging, and he knew Athos had too. There was no time for such indulgences in war. It was only now, back in Paris, that all the sharing of their war stories was stirring up those emotions, forcing them to put everything to rest properly.

"And yet I could not tell you, and now you understand why." d'Artagnan was firm, his gaze direct and unwavering, and finally Athos looked him in the eye.

After a long-held breath, Athos nodded, imperceptibly, and there was a collective sigh of relief around the room.

"So... we're good?" Porthos asked, tentatively.

"No, wait! That's it? Just a nod, after all this, and that's it? You can't – that can't be everything."

Athos rolled his neck and d'Artagnan groaned, quietly, then shut up hastily as Constance turned to glare at him. "What?" she demanded.

"I just wondered if we could – should, even – just enjoy the accord we have reached," he told her softly.

"I think Constance will not let you rest until she's heard the rest of the story," Athos sounded unexpectedly calm, as if he'd finally resolved things in his mind. He was not fond of prolonged discussion about anything, but he seemed resigned to the fact that it needed to be done.

"I would be glad to hear more," Aramis supported him. He was grateful for anything that helped break down the barriers four years apart had erected between him and his brothers. He could hardly believe what he'd heard this morning and was harbouring more guilt than ever at not being there to help them. Porthos had hinted more than once at their constant regret, and sometimes anger, at his absence. He accepted the anger, knowing this moment was not about him or his feelings, but was heartened by the knowledge that they'd actively missed him. He would take Porthos for a drink, later, and was more confident now that they could move past this.

Athos nodded his agreement, finally taking a sip of wine. "She just wants to hear more of her husband's heroics," he commented, wryly.

"Hardly," objected d'Artagnan but the others laughed and Constance settled against her man, snuggling into his side. She was hoping the rest of the war would make for more comfortable listening than what she had already heard, but even if not, she was grateful for the insight the stories were giving her into the changes she'd seen in all of them since they returned.

"Well then, my hero," she teased him. "What happened next?"

"Well, the war carried on regardless of whatever personal issues we had. I decided the only thing I could do was keep my head down..."

"... and stay clear of Colombe, the bastard," added Porthos with feeling.

"... definitely that," agreed d'Artagnan. "So I kept busy... and then Porthos needed me, and that helped."

"I did?" Porthos looked puzzled.

"Yes, you did." d'Artagnan sent him a fond smile, and took up the tale.


	11. Hole Where My Heart Used To Be Part 1

_FF was playing up yesterday when I posted this and I couldn't see it or the link, so I took it down again. Apologies if some of you saw the link before it disappeared again, but hopefully it's working properly now. Humble thanks to everyone who is following, favouriting and especially those who give me your thoughts - you are awesome and make my day!_

 _I had to split this chapter in two as it was so long, but that means the second part will be up soon x_

* * *

 **Chapter Nine: A Hole Where my Heart Used to Be Part I**

 _Orbara_

He was awake again long before dawn. Once he'd slept out some of his exhaustion the pain from his torn and bruised muscles had woken him, and kept him awake, but he managed to keep quiet and rest, comforted by the sound of Porthos' steady breathing.

By morning his muscles had stiffened so much that he was in seven kinds of pain, and could barely rise from his bed. Porthos told him firmly to stay put, draped a blanket over his shoulders to help warm his abused muscles, and fetched Julien, who took one look at him and cursed, producing pain potions, bandages and healing ointment in short order. The wounds on his back had crusted, and the blood stuck to his shirt, but there was no time to clean it all properly: they could already hear the _reveille_ being sounded outside and the sounds of a camp starting to bustle with urgent movement as the various regiments prepared to fight. So Julien settled for pouring the ointment onto the bandages covering d'Artagnan's back, so it would soak through to the skin below and soften the scabs, and wrapped more bandages on top to cushion the heavy leather of his doublet. Porthos came back from the mess tent with a cup of spiced ale, which d'Artagnan took, and some bread which he refused, and then there was only time to help him with his uniform before taking their place in the ranks.

Muster was short as Athos briefed them on the battle plans. Once again his gaze seemed to skip over d'Artagnan as he called names and assigned them into units, but as he dismissed them to finalise their preparations, he finally caught d'Artagnan's eye and beckoned him over.

They hadn't spoken since the brief exchange in front of Colombe the previous morning at the gate, and d'Artagnan felt his steps slowing as he approached. His heart was racing as he tried to read his mentor's expression, desperately wondering what to expect, what to say, whether to try to apologise again. But as he approached he could see Athos' jaw was set so he simply stopped and waited respectfully.

There was a small pause during which, d'Artagnan thought, Athos' expression softened ever so slightly. It gave him confidence to speak. "Athos?" Inside he didn't know whether to laugh or cry - that was all he could manage, when there was so much to say? But now was not the time and Athos made that clear in the next second, by turning to walk away.

"You're with me today, d'Artagnan."

Five words. d'Artagnan found himself examining them over and over as he followed his Captain, trying to look calm and professional and not at all like an eager puppy trailing after his master – the accusation that had led to his former nickname amongst the musketeers. Why was he to stay with Athos in the battle? Because you're unfit to fight, you numbskull, his inner voice supplied, but there was a bit of him that felt comforted, not insulted, by the fact that Athos wanted him close. He knew it made total sense – any leader worth his salt would keep a semi-fit soldier back from the front line – but still. Athos was looking out for him.

d'Artagnan had been desperate to prove himself fit, to justify his return to the front, but today after everything that had gone wrong, he found he didn't care about his reputation anymore. He was just glad to have a role at all.

* * *

Two hours later and he was revising that thought. He would have gladly swopped for any camp duty – rolling bandages with Etienne, husking corn in the kitchens for Chonfleur, digging the latrines out: anything but this.

He was consigned to escorting Athos as he rode up and down the hill overlooking today's battlefield, occasionally racing to the Generals with messages or to the front line with instructions to push forwards or fall back. The sounds of battle raged around him as he rode but he was powerless to help: Athos had made it abundantly clear that the slightest deviation from his orders would result in serious consequences. Athos hadn't spelled out what they might be, and d'Artagnan didn't want to know. He'd already suffered just about the worst punishment he could imagine – losing his officer's commission and being given the lash – and he had a feeling that any further transgression could involve being sent back to Paris. Probably without his pauldron.

Thoughts of that threat, however unlikely, did not make it any easier to do Athos' bidding. For one thing Athos had not looked at him once when giving him instructions and messages. And for another, d'Artagnan was finding it increasingly impossible to restrain his natural impulse to fling himself headlong into the fight to help his fellow musketeers - who today were struggling, frequently lost from view in the melee below as the two armies clashed.

Next to him, sitting motionless astride his magnificent black stallion, Athos was the picture of control, but he too was finding it hard to stay remote, especially when distracted by d'Artagnan fidgeting and twitching, constantly checking his pistol and fiddling with his reins.

Athos was on the verge of sending d'Artagnan to the Generals with some spurious message simply to have a few moments' freedom from distraction, when he noticed a surge from the Spanish forces near to where Porthos was leading a small unit of musketeers, towards an area of dry-river beds which twisted between granite pillars in a labyrinthine pattern.

The musketeers had scouted a route through this rocky area a couple of days earlier and had hoped to be able to use it to move men, unseen, around and behind the Spanish front line, if the opportunity arose. River water had cut deep channels into the rock over centuries of spring flooding, and a man could move at a crouch unseen by those in the flatter land to the west. But now, as the battle-tide washed ever closer to the ravines, Athos could clearly see the danger his men were in. They had taken longer than anticipated to reach the river channels, and already the battle front was closing in behind them.

He glanced to his right. d'Artagnan was watching intently, leaning forward in his saddle as if urging the men to move faster. If they reached the far end of the ravines without impediment, they would reach a wooded area which would give them plenty of cover to work around behind the Spanish lines. With a force of around 30 men under his command, the plan was for Porthos' team to raid from the cover of the trees, picking off units of Spaniards then retreating, to cause the maximum amount of confusion and panic on that wing.

It should have worked; it really should. When he'd suggested it the generals had been impressed by the strategy. The Musketeer Captain was the only leader to have spotted the potential offered by this unusual terrain and the senior officers had been quick to approve the plan.

None of them, however, had expected the French regiment following behind the Musketeers to be so slow. They were supposed to be holding the back line, making sure the Spanish didn't flood into their wake as Porthos' men moved into the twisting stone channels, but they were slow to push forward and were now being repulsed by a strong counter-attack from the Spanish.

"They're retreating!" breathed d'Artagnan, turning anxious eyes on Athos.

"Go!" Athos told him and d'Artagnan shot off, not needing any further explanation. He galloped Nuit flat out towards the captain of the retreating Picardy regiment, reaching his position on the next hillside within half a minute. Athos waited impatiently, attention divided between watching the developing crisis below and the hillside to his left. After a few moments he saw d'Artagnan peel away and gallop back towards him, long hair flying as he urged Nuit ever faster. As Nuit skidded to a halt he gasped out: "Captain Allard says there's nothing he can do!"

Athos swore, already looking back at the front. If the Spanish front line didn't notice Porthos' men, he would be fine; the musketeers were already nearly at the top end of the ravine and would soon be safe in the woods, out of sight. If Picardy regiment would just slow their retreat and keep the Spanish troops occupied...

"Dammit!" Some of the Spanish had peeled away from main fighting and were racing up the ravine. They must have spotted the rearmost men of Porthos' unit. And then Athos was beyond swearing as he noticed a flurry of movement at the head of the ravine, where another group of Spanish swordsmen were suddenly visible at the top end of the channel Porthos was following.

"They're trapped! Athos!" d'Artagnan's cry of anguish was lost in the thundering in Athos' ears as he rapidly discarded one possibility after another. The only thing he could think of was the small group of Musketeers waiting in reserve on the slopes just below them – but they were hundreds of yards behind the retreating Picardies who were in a much better position to help, if only their captain would get his head out of his arse and see it. The musketeers would have to push through that fight even to get to the ravine and Athos knew, with a sinking heart, that they would probably be too late. It would take too long to move them into position, and they would get tangled up with the Picardies... But he couldn't just sit here and watch while Porthos' men were slowly overwhelmed.

He looked to his right as d'Artagnan, clearly having come to the same conclusion, leapt off his horse, drawing his sword. "Athos? Let me go! Please! _Athos,_ _ **please**_ _!"_

Hardly believing what he was doing, Athos responded to the naked plea in d'Artagnan's voice and nodded, then closed his eyes as d'Artagnan raced off down the slope.

He couldn't get there in time, Athos thought, his mind still calmly analysing the battle scene even as his heart clenched in abject fear for his men. There were several hundred soldiers – Spanish and French – between him and the ravines where, even now, he could see and hear the fighting break out as Porthos' men were attacked from both ends of the river bed. Had he condemned half his men to their deaths by devising this bloody strategy in the first place?

He was peripherally aware of another rider arriving beside him as he watched his youngest Musketeer hurl himself down the hillside towards – well, not directly towards the ravines, but veering to the left and reaching the reserve musketeer unit in record time. How he didn't fall at that breakneck speed Athos didn't know, but he hadn't, and now he was racing through the startled musketeers, holding his sword high above his head as if it were a battle flag, screaming something that was lost in the general cacophony of battle. And men were scrambling to follow him, leaping to their feet and racing after him with a roar that Athos could begin to hear, now, above everything else.

They had caught up to the rearmost Picardy soldiers now. Thirty-odd musketeers bellowing to "ADVANCE! ATTACK!" and roaring through your midst is enough to give anyone pause, and even the Spanish bearing down on the Frenchmen seemed to hesitate as the musketeers burst through their ranks.

Athos held his breath as he leaned forwards in his saddle, his hand gripping his sword-hilt tightly as he strained to follow the action, his entire body clenched, willing his men to break through; to keep fighting; keep safe.

For a minute, two minutes, he could make nothing out; he'd lost sight of d'Artagnan and could barely see where the fighting line was anymore, amidst the chaos of pitched battles and whirls of dust. Then suddenly there was a surge – a rush of men all forging in one direction: _towards_ the stone river channels.

He still couldn't make out any individuals but he could hear them: a wild yelling that was enough to set the hairs rising on the back of his neck. These were his men, hurling themselves headlong into a superior force but uncaring of the dangers; intent only on reaching their own men and supporting them.

And it was working! Slowly he realised that the press of advancing musketeers – still running full-tilt – had been joined by other men, for there were twice as many now, three times as many, all forging forwards and scattering the startled Spanish troops. Many peeled off to left and right to pursue their own targets, but the main swell of men had reached the ravine and was engaging the Spanish troops who had pushed up behind Porthos' men. He couldn't see Porthos, or the top of the ravine where the second line of Spaniards had cornered his unit, but at this end of the ravine the Spaniards were rapidly disappearing, battered by the resolve of the French.

"Impressive." The voice was low and restrained, but even so Athos startled, having forgotten the rider who'd approached just as d'Artagnan raced off down the hillside.

The rider on his left was unknown to him, but cut an imposing figure: in his forties, tall, with thick silvering hair swept back from an intelligent brow. He wasn't looking at Athos, but following the action below just as intently as Athos.

He looked back himself now, desperately willing them to succeed. He should probably answer the man, who he presumed was the new General, Faucille, who had arrived early that morning, but he couldn't unclench his jaw enough to speak. His men were down there, right in the thick of it, and he couldn't see them. Couldn't help. Could only sit here on this bloody hillside and wait to find out how many of them were still alive at the end.

Roger was cantering on the spot now, head tossing as he responded to the conflict in his master, whose weight was forward in the saddle, legs clamped around the horse's sides as he imagined surging down the hill to join his men. Only his hands – and his iron will – were keeping the stallion in check.

"Hardest part of the battle is standing watching," came the voice again: a low, rich baritone voice speaking quietly in the manner of one accustomed to being heard.

This time Athos managed a nod, restraining Roger's forward creep until the stallion settled to an occasional leg-stamp.

"They've turned the tide." He was amazed to hear his own voice sounded calm and matter-of-fact, in spite of the wild thumping of his heart and the chaotic thoughts in his head.

General Faucille nodded, then turned as another rider cantered up with a message from further along the front. With a tip of his head the General had moved off and Athos was left alone again. But not for long. To his left messengers were flying down the hill and the French line was consolidating and pressing forwards now, and faintly Athos began to hear Spanish cries of 'R _etiro!', 'Regresa!'_ (Retreat! Fall back!). Suddenly the area near the ravines was free of the fighting and almost immediately, it seemed, French fighters started to re-appear from the swirls of battle-dust.

Without conscious thought, Athos nudged Roger forward and they began to pick their way down the hill towards his men. The first group was pouring out, heading towards the rest of the French lines to assist with the forward push, and at the same time protecting those that followed, for the men behind were in no condition to fight, Athos saw with a surge of fear. They staggered in twos and threes, dragging their wounded between them, moving unsteadily away from the fighting and towards the hill.

Athos stopped Roger with another supreme effort of will and stood waiting on a low ridge where he was visible to his injured men and could still see the rest of the regiment. As the first of the injured reached him he leaned down and clasped a shoulder here, a hand there as they passed, sending them on their weary way up the hill towards the waiting medics. Each familiar face was one less worry but as the trickle of injured slowed, he knew he was not giving them his full attention for his focus was on searching behind them for the two faces he had yet to recognise, either amongst those still fighting or amongst these wounded men.

Suddenly Fouchard emerged from the chaos and called out from his position under the shoulder of an unconscious musketeer. "Captain! They're just behind me."

Athos let out a breath that was perilously close to a sob as he looked over Fouchard's head and saw the achingly familiar figure of Porthos, his face coated in blood, sagging heavily onto d'Artagnan's slender frame. d'Artagnan's arm was wrapped around Porthos' waist and he was struggling to control the big musketeer, both men weaving with exhaustion but – oh, thank God! – still walking. Still breathing, still living...

Athos was off Roger without hesitation, running towards them with a haste unseemly in a captain but totally uncaring. He ducked under Porthos' other shoulder and took his weight, looking over at d'Artagnan whose face was also dark with dust, blood spatters and sweat-trails, but whose eyes were dancing with adrenaline as he coaxed Porthos up the hill. He looked okay, Athos realised; in fact he looked more than okay. He'd come alive, in that mad dash down the hill and into the fray, gathering men in his wake, and even now, weaving with weariness, he looked as if he could conquer the world.

They reached the top of the hill, Roger trailing after them obediently, and Athos steered them firmly towards a flat-bedded cart already loaded with half a dozen wounded. Hands reached to help and he released his hold on Porthos reluctantly, watching until he saw him settled in the back, leaning against another semi-comatose musketeer. As the wagon set off Athos took a long breath and tried to remember what he should be doing. Checking his walking wounded. Overseeing those still fighting. Reporting to the Generals for further orders. Gathering his wits he turned, to find d'Artagnan still standing next to him, hands on his knees now, panting, sweat dripping steadily from his brow.

"You okay?" Athos asked him quietly, seeing General Marche approaching and knowing he only had seconds before he would be dragged off to do his duty again.

d'Artagnan nodded, still struggling for breath now the adrenaline rush was wearing off. "Porthos will be too. I couldn't see any serious wounds."

Athos shut his eyes in sheer relief for a second but then General Marche was there, demanding his report and his explanation for breaking the battle lines and ignoring the plans.

He turned to remount Roger, telling d'Artagnan quietly to get back to camp and check the wounded – by which he meant Porthos – and apologising to the General in the same breath. d'Artagnan watched him go, his eyes shining brightly in his dirt-streaked face.

* * *

By mid afternoon the Spanish had gathered their dead and retreated to the next valley, and orders were given to the French army to make camp where they stood. In the old camp anyone still standing was pressed into mind-numbing activity as tents and equipment were packed and loaded ready to advance a league. A small contingent remained with those too injured or exhausted to move, which included Porthos, but d'Artagnan was sent with the other men to make the new camp. He made the journey half a dozen times and worked alongside the others until well into the night, setting up tents, horse lines, the mess tent, helping set the camp fires and drawing water from the only river still running through the lowest part of the valley.

Athos supervised the dismantling of the Musketeer camp after a long debrief with the Generals, then remained behind with the injured. d'Artagnan ate a quick and unsatisfying meal of bread and apples, then begged the other Musketeer Lieutenant, Jumot, to let him return one more time to the old camp to check on Porthos. Anxious himself for news – there were still twenty-odd musketeers under medical care, some of them seriously injured – Jumot agreed and d'Artagnan grabbed Nuit and - too weary to saddle her up, managed a creditable vault onto her bare back and pushed her straight into a canter. She was as tired as he was but she responded with her usual honesty and travelled the well-worn path rapidly in spite of the darkness, having traversed it too many times already today.

In the medical tent d'Artagnan was relieved to see Porthos was sitting up and talking quietly to Athos. He slowed his steps, noting the weary faces of those on the cots nearest to him, stopping to speak to a couple as he made his way towards Porthos.

Athos looked up as he approached, and his expression softened. "How's the new camp?"

"We're going to miss the well," replied d'Artagnan with feeling as he settled on the edge of an empty cot next to Porthos. He'd spent two hours this evening hauling buckets of water from the river and carrying them up to camp to dump into barrels – back-breaking work at the best of times but with all the aches of the morning's fight making themselves known, on top of his battered back, it had nearly finished him off.

Athos snorted an almost-laugh, then rose, patting Porthos on the shoulder. "I'll check on the other men then we'll head back together, Porthos."

d'Artagnan looked at him in surprise, noting the red-stained bandage around Porthos' head, and the thick bandages wrapping one arm. "Are you fit to move?" he asked, injudiciously as it turned out. Porthos snapped his head towards d'Artagnan, wincing as the world wobbled on its axis for a moment, then growled out a grumpy curse. "Of course I bloody am! Bloody medics think they know it all."

d'Artagnan grinned, relieved that Porthos had regained his fighting spirit. But Porthos hadn't finished.

"As for you, you blitherin' fool, you should know better'n to interfere where you're not needed. Athos needed you by 'is side and where were you? Fartin' around wavin' your sword and stirrin' everythin' up, givin' Athos an 'eap of trouble with the Generals ... Fuck's sake, when are you goin' to learn to follow orders?"

He was shouting now and d'Artagnan's mouth had fallen open, scarcely able to believe his ears and reeling with the unfairness of Porthos' tirade.

"Porthos, enough!" Athos' voice sounded unnaturally loud in the hush that had fallen over the tent.

d'Artagnan's voice, by contrast, was barely a whisper "Porthos, that's not what..." He trailed off as Porthos turned his head away. What could he say, if that's what Porthos really thought? How could he think that?

"Go." Spoken so close that he could feel Athos' warm breath on his ear. d'Artagnan lurched to his feet and stumbled wildly towards the entrance, hearing only Athos' calm voice and Porthos' rumble as the stares from medics and conscious wounded followed him out of the tent.

Outside, d'Artagnan moved on wooden legs to Nuit where she waited patiently in the dark of the virtually abandoned camp. A small guard patrolled the close perimeter and half a dozen men huddled around a camp fire nearby, but no-one looked up as d'Artagnan hauled himself wearily onto her back and nudged her slowly onto the path to the new camp.

He was so stunned he couldn't remember the short journey at all. All he could hear was Porthos' angry accusations ringing in his ears. All he could see was his friend's weary, battered face glaring at him as if he was a bumbling cadet. Why would he say those things?

In the new camp he slid slowly off Nuit's back and stood, one hand on her neck, trying to think what to do. If Porthos was heading over to the new camp would he sleep in his own tent? He would need someone to keep an eye on him but it wouldn't be d'Artagnan, of that he was sure. Porthos looked like he couldn't stand the sight of him. Maybe he should move Porthos' bed into Athos tent – but would he see that as just another example of him "interfering"?

"d'Artagnan?" Guérin was standing in front of him, looking worried.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing – not with me. Are you alright?"

"Yes, of course. Why?" d'Artagnan wished his voice sounded less shaky.

"You've been standing there for five minutes, that's why. What's on your mind?"

When d'Artagnan didn't answer immediately, Guérin tutted and took the reins from d'Artagnan. "Come on, I'll give you a hand."

They settled Nuit at the horse lines together, working in peaceable silence to fetch water and hay and rub her down properly since d'Artagnan hadn't had time earlier.

"Right, let's get you a drink then you need some sleep. You look exhausted. All that hero stuff is great but I thought you were supposed to be on light duty!" Guérin's tone was gently teasing but it was the last straw for d'Artagnan.

"All right, I get it!" he spat at Guérin. "I'm a waste of space, I don't deserve to be here, I get it but what can I do?" He'd started angrily but already despair had crept into his voice. "I can't exactly leave so tell me, Guérin, what should I do?"

Guérin was staring at him. "What do you mean, you're a waste of space?"

d'Artagnan suddenly felt unutterably weary. His back was on fire and it was taking more energy than he had left just to stand. All he wanted to do was lie down and sleep for a week. He headed back towards the tents, squinting to see where the tent he shared with Porthos was. He hadn't unpacked yet: it would be easy enough to move out. Again.

Guérin caught him by the arm and pulled him to a stop. "Talk to me!" he demanded.

Mutely, d'Artagnan shook his head and tried to move off but Guérin's grip tightenened.

"Who told you you're a waste of space?"

"No-one." Not in so many words.

"Was it that Colombe bastard?"

d'Artagnan let out a bitter laugh. If only it _had_ been him saying those words, instead of his best friend.

"Then who? I know it's not Athos: I heard him talking to the General and giving you credit for the rescue."

"Really?" d'Artagnan hated the desperate note he heard in his voice.

"Yes, really! God, d'Artagnan, you are just – impossible! Did you really think Athos would not give you credit? It was bloody amazing. The whole camp is talking about it..."

"But Porthos said – "

"So it was Porthos who upset you?" Guérin pounced on his words, then paused at the stricken look on his friend's face, and went on more gently. "What did he say?"

"He just – he said I was foolish and needed to learn to follow orders."

Guérin looked at him sharply. "Didn't Athos give you an order, then?"

"Yes! Well, no, not in so many words – there wasn't time. I begged him to let me go – we could both see what needed to be done – he nodded, and I went."

Guérin was beginning to make sense of it all now. Damn this bloody war that made everyone so tired, and every small word take on huge significance. He put his arm around d'Artagnan and steered him towards the campfire. "What Porthos said was not about you -"

"Well he wasn't looking at anyone else when he yelled at me that I'd given Athos a heap of trouble and – "

Guérin had had enough. "You pig-headed Gascon, don't say another word: just listen! Porthos is _hurting_! He got caught in a trap – it was just bad luck, but that's what it was, a trap. He had thirty men with him and he lost six, and twice that number injured. Fewer than half his men walked out of there unaided! We know none of that was his fault but you know as well as I do that won't console him. Then I imagine Athos told him the bits Porthos didn't see – about you belting off and rousing half the hillside to come after you – and about having a roasting from General-bloody-Marche for not following the battle-plan – and then you walk in and you're the one person he can yell at because he's hurting, he's feeling guilty for letting his men down – " d'Artagnan went to interrupt but Guérin talked over him. "Yes, _we_ know he didn't let anyone down but he's not hearing that at the moment. And you're his closest friend, his tent-mate, for chrissake, he can let off steam with you, let all the hurt out, because you can take it!"

d'Artagnan was twisting his fingers in his lap, his breathing coming unsteadily, but he was listening with a desperate intensity.

Guérin softened his voice, his expression full of empathy. "Trouble is, he's forgotten that you _can't_ take it, can you? You've been battered too many times these last few months and you don't know which way is up anymore, do you?"

d'Artagnan was beyond answering.

Guérin sighed. He was tired; it had been a very, very long day, everything ached and he hadn't put his bed together yet. But his friend was in trouble – again – and he couldn't leave him like this. He could feel the Gascon trembling slightly beside him, whether with exhaustion or emotion he didn't know. Compassion won out over weariness and he tried again.

"Right. We're back in the garrison." d'Artagnan's head shot up at that, and his intent gaze never left Guérin's face as he explained. "You've been on a mission that went wrong; you rescued Porthos and he's now in the infirmary, mouthing off because he's feeling shocked and guilty and in pain. Athos stays with him to calm him down, and you're sitting at your table with Aramis. What does Aramis tell you?"

"If we were in the garrison I wouldn't be feeling this way." d'Artagnan sounded defensive, and slightly petulant.

Guérin suppressed a smile. "Humour me."

d'Artagnan sighed. "Alright... he'd probably say... to stop thinking about myself and put myself in Porthos' boots. And to have another drink, and it would all be alright in the morning."

Guérin laughed. He could just imagine Aramis saying that. "And in the morning?"

d'Artagnan shut his eyes, imagining the courtyard in the early morning, and felt a visceral longing to be there instead of here. It took an effort to remember the question and formulate an answer. "Porthos would apologise, Aramis would look smug. I'd grumble about being unappreciated..." It sounded so easy! Here it was different, amidst all the chaos and the fear, the exhaustion, the constant stress, the incessant noise and clamour, the rivalries between regiments, the posturing of the Generals, and not forgetting the Spanish with their _tercios_ and their field cannon and their endless bloody numbers...

Even so, he felt something shift inside him as he pictured the garrison. Guérin was right: he would never let things bother him back there, the way they did here. What was wrong with him? He'd lost all his confidence, that unshakeable belief that problems could be solved by bravery and honesty, by doing the right thing. Here nothing he did seemed to be right. Had he lost who he was? It certainly felt like it at the moment. But ... He didn't want to lose himself. He hadn't got where he was by being uncertain, or worrying about what people thought of him.

A warm cup was dumped into his hands and he looked up as Guérin plonked back down next to him. He'd been so lost in thought that he hadn't even noticed his friend get up to fetch them both drinks. He took a sip and let out a tiny moan of appreciation as the warm, honeyed mead slipped down his throat. He hadn't realised how parched he was, or how cold.

They sipped in silence for a moment, then Guérin nudged him. "Is it working?" he asked, hopefully.

d'Artagnan laughed, shaking his head ruefully. Guérin was even sounding like Aramis now. He sighed. "I don't know." Oh, for goodness sake. Still uncertain. He had to change this. He'd felt so sure, that morning in the middle of the battle, about how to help Porthos. He hadn't dithered or doubted himself then; he'd trusted his instincts. He just had to remember how to do that the rest of the time – not just in battle."No. I do know. I know what I have to do. But I might need reminding, from time to time."

Guérin nodded, and nudged d'Artagnan gently. "It will be my pleasure to give you a kick up the backside whenever I see you worrying, young Gascon. Now if you've finished this particular crisis, can I _please_ go and build my bed so I can get some sleep?"

* * *

In the end d'Artagnan slept by the fire that night. Partly it was because he couldn't find the energy to wrestle with his camp bed, even though his mind was fizzing with tired energy and he thought he might sleep better under the stars. And partly, if he was honest, because he wanted to watch for the others when they arrived at the new camp.

He had set up Porthos' bed in Athos' tent, but then everything had caught up with him: lack of sleep from the previous two nights, the pain and emotion of the flogging, and the nervous energy of this morning's fighting. His back was throbbing mercilessly, and it was all he could do to struggle over to his tent to find a blanket. Within moments of wrapping himself up by the fire he had fallen into a light doze.

He woke briefly when he heard horses arriving during the night and watched Athos help Porthos to dismount by his tent. He saw Athos duck inside, then reappear almost immediately, looking over towards the tents. He thought he saw Athos notice him by the fire and nod at him as he helped Porthos into the tent. Sleepily, d'Artagnan fed more wood to the fire and settled down again, knowing that he could sleep properly now both his brothers were safe.


	12. Hole Where my Heart Used To Be Part 2

_As promised, the second half (third?!) of this chapter, in which our friend Colombe makes another reappearance..._

 **A Hole Where my Heart Used to Be part II**

He woke well before dawn, feeling stiff, his limbs and face frozen. Heavy dew had settled on everything and the fire had died down. Reluctantly he unravelled himself and stretched cautiously, feeling the aching muscles and sharp bruises from the pitched battle yesterday underneath a burning sensation across his back as the welts on his back stretched and split.

He also realised his right ankle was throbbing. He vaguely remembered turning his foot on the mad dash down the hillside, and nearly falling, but the adrenaline rush had driven it from his mind, and after that he'd been too tired to take much notice of what he thought was just a bruised ankle joint. Now, after a night on the cold ground, it had stiffened and felt swollen.

He cursed, knowing it would mean another trip to the medics before Athos noticed. Then he put the anxiety firmly out of his mind as he remembered his conversation with Guérin last night and the resolution he had made just to get on with things. He had to trust that their friendship would overcome both the obstacles thrown up by the stresses of war and the divisions driven between them by their differing ranks in a situation where – for the first time since he joined the Musketeers – it _did_ matter.

By muster he had visited one of the other medic tents, as the musketeer medical team was still back at the old camp. Someone there had strapped his ankle, and cleaned the wounds on his back where his efforts the day before had made them bleed again.

Jumot, unusually, took muster, neither Athos or Porthos having been seen yet this morning. Jumot referred briefly to yesterday's battle and updated everyone on the wounded before appointing everyone to standard camp duties. Before he'd dismissed them however, Athos appeared looking worn, holding a clutch of papers.

"General Faucille has ordered a survey of the upper valleys to determine the positions and numbers of the Spanish," he announced quietly as he stopped beside Jumot. He looked carefully over his men, noting every weary shift as his men listened. He knew they were hurting after yesterday's near-disaster, but the intention to keep pushing the Spanish forces now that they were retreating was a sensible one and the Musketeers, as always, were in high demand for scouting missions.

He conferred quickly with Jumot before announcing the new assignments. d'Artagnan was amongst a dozen called to take one of the maps Athos was holding and do a detailed survey. As he reached Athos he asked quietly after Porthos, but Athos went on handing out maps without answering, and d'Artagnan, after a brief hesitation, carried on towards the horse lines, pushing down the feeling of fear that their friendship had somehow been irrevocably damaged and reminding himself simply to give it time.

His was one of the furthest sectors and it took him until late afternoon to do a full survey, counting troops from the shelter of the tree-line high above that end of the valley and marking positions on the roughly-copied map. By the time he got back to camp he was tired and hungry, his ankle was throbbing and he couldn't wait to stretch out on his bed. He could not believe his bad luck therefore, that the first person he saw as he passed the guards on gate duty, was – of course – Colombe.

"Oy. Dartigan, over here."

d'Artagnan shut his eyes and briefly contemplated just keeping going as if he hadn't heard. The idea of simply drawing his pistol and shooting the bastard – accidentally of course – also crossed his mind but sadly there were too many witnesses around. It was a shame none of them appeared to be musketeers or anyone he could appeal to ...

"DARTIGAN!" Loud enough to draw a few pairs of eyes and make it impossible for d'Artagnan to pretend he hadn't heard.

d'Artagnan took a deep breath and turned Nuit. "Sir?" Managing to sound almost respectful in spite of the impulse to have Nuit barge into the smug git and trample him.

"I need someone to scout this sector." Colombe passed a map up to d'Artagnan.

"I've already completed my section, Sir." He made sure to keep his eyes on the ground and his tone respectful, feeling far too tired to risk another confrontation.

"Then you are free to survey this one. Report to General Faucille when you're done and hurry up – the debrief is at eight o'clock."

d'Artagnan couldn't believe it. Surely all sectors should have been surveyed by now. Why had this one been missed – and why did HE have to do it? But he knew he had no option but to obey the order. Colombe was clearly hoping he would object and looked almost disappointed when d'Artagnan took the map without further comment.

It was well after dark, and past 8 o'clock, by the time d'Artagnan returned the second time, so he headed straight through camp towards the General's red command tent. Sliding off Nuit he grimaced as his foot touched the ground; hours in the saddle had made the swelling worse and his ankle was really throbbing now. He left Nuit without hitching her reins, knowing she was too weary to wander, and limped stiffly into the tent, finding it already crowded with officers and men all listening to the General outlining the plans for routing the Spanish forces from their new position.

He caught a few disapproving glances at his tardiness, but Guérin was standing near the back and quickly beckoned him over. "Where have you been?" he hissed.

Before d'Artagnan could answer one of the captains started calling out the sector numbers and each man went up in turn with his map to give a brief summary of his findings. Slowly they worked through the sectors, putting each section of map into place on a table so they could begin to see the bigger picture of the troop positions. Finally it got to d'Artagnan's sector and he pushed through the others, trying to walk evenly as he made his way to the front to hand over his map. As he turned to retake his place he could see Athos eyeing him and knew, in spite of his best efforts, that his limp was obvious.

A few more numbers were called and then sector 17 was called. "Yes," he called, preparing to head for the generals' table again, but found another voice also answering: Colombe. Puzzled, he stopped, finding eyes turning on him and Colombe as the latter walked smartly up to the table and handed over his map. General Faucille took it and handed it to the captain who was putting all the maps together, then looked over to where d'Artagnan was hesitating. "That was the last sector – but you still have a map?"

All eyes turned to d'Artagnan and he flushed, wishing he hadn't called out so quickly. The map was obvious in his hand and he couldn't pretend it was a mistake. Then anger took over. If Colombe had surveyed it, how come he'd asked d'Artagnan to do it? He cursed his naivety. He'd been set up: given another pointless, meaningless, inane task. The bastard!

But he'd done the work, and everyone was waiting, so, somewhat reluctantly, he limped up to the table again and handed over his second map.

The general glanced at it, then picked up Colombe's map and compared them. d'Artagnan looked too, wondering himself if there had simply been a mistake in numbering the maps. But no: the two maps clearly covered the same terrain.

"Why did you survey this sector? You had your own sector already."

"Yes Sir. I ..." He faltered, seeing Athos' piercing green gaze on him. "I was asked to do this one when I returned this afternoon."

General Faucille looked puzzled, still comparing the two maps. "Who asked you?"

 _Merde_! He didn't want to name Colombe – but he couldn't refuse to answer either. Dammit, the man had only himself to blame. Taking a calming breath, he answered "Lieutenant Colombe, Sir."

There was a stir amongst the men behind him. Everyone knew about the altercation and d'Artagnan's subsequent punishment. Everyone, presumably, except General Faucille who looked up sharply as he picked up on the change in mood in the tent.

"Lieutenant, why did you ask – what's your name?"

"d'Artagnan, Sir."

"Why did you ask d'Artagnan to survey an area you yourself had already surveyed? Do you not trust your own work?"

Lieutenant Colombe looked insulted. "My observations are accurate, General. And I did not ask him to survey my sector. He is lying."

There were gasps from behind d'Artagnan and he heard Guérin call out "He's not the liar!" before being shushed by those around him.

Athos stepped forward, saying quietly: "General, if I may?"

Recognising that d'Artagnan was one of the Musketeer captain's men, General Faucille nodded his permission for Athos to take over. Athos turned to Colombe.

"Lieutenant, why would my man be lying? He is injured, and presumably would have preferred to stay in camp than spend another four or five hours in the saddle for no reason."

"I have no idea! He's clearly just trying to make trouble again." If Colombe expected d'Artagnan to rise to the bait, he was disappointed: d'Artagnan swallowed, but literally kept his head down. He knew whatever he said would only land him in more trouble. But no one else spoke either, and he looked up to find the General regarding him thoughtfully, then eyeing Colombe with such an intense gaze that the lieutenant began to squirm and bluster.

"We were comparing notes when we both returned from our surveys this afternoon." Colombe's voice sounded defensive. "He asked to see my map so I showed him the spare copy I had made in case the original got damaged." He paused, looking round as if expecting praise for his diligence. When none came, he hurried on. "Maybe he just misunderstood our conversation and thought I'd asked him to do the survey. How would I know how a Gascon's brain works?" He spat this last out almost viciously and there another murmur of protest rippled around the room. Athos' head snapped up with a warning glare towards d'Artagnan, but the young musketeer had himself under tight control and his only visible reaction was the clenching of his jaw and the flaring of his nostrils as he tried to breathe evenly.

The General murmured to Athos: "Is this the one your man thumped the other night?"

Athos' eyebrow shot up, as did the general in his estimation: he certainly had his ear to the camp grapevine already. "Yes, Sir."

"Hmm." Before the general could say anymore, Captain Thiers started to point something out on one of the two maps he'd been scrutinising. d'Artagnan wondered if he should retake his place at the back of the tent but General Faucille suddenly barked out a question. "What are these marks, d'Artagnan?"

Hesitantly d'Artagnan squeezed past Colombe, careful not to touch him, and glanced at his survey map. "Those are camp fires, Sir." When the two officers exchanged glances, he felt heat rising to his cheeks, thinking he'd done something stupid. "It was dusk by the time I got to that section and dark by the time I'd finished, so where I couldn't see well enough to count troop numbers, I just marked their fires, Sir." Beside him he could hear Colombe scoffing and he shut his eyes, miserably. He'd done his best, he really had, but...

"Lieutenant, can you explain this?" Colombe stiffened then shoved past d'Artagnan. Captain Thiers was holding out the Lieutenant's survey map now.

"Mine is accurate, as I said."

"I'm sure it is; for the main part the two maps agree but here, towards the rear of the hill you were surveying – you have marked nothing."

"Because there was nothing there!"

"Yet d'Artagnan found evidence of considerable troops stationed behind their main camp. Which you missed."

"There was nothing to see, I tell you!"

"So is he lying about this, too?" There was a sudden hush in the tent as the General stood calmly waiting for an answer.

Colombe clearly didn't know what to say, settling for a mumbled "I have no idea."

"Both of you, stand down."

d'Artagnan heaved a sigh of relief and headed to the back of the tent as fast as his sore ankle would permit. Guérin pounced on him immediately. "What was all that about?" But d'Artagnan could only shake his head, wearily.

The officers were conferring over the map table, and the men could only talk amongst themselves waiting for dismissal or further orders. d'Artagnan shifted constantly, trying to ease the ache in his ankle, until Guérin tutted and wrapped an arm around his waist so that d'Artagnan had no choice but to lean on him. "Thanks," he muttered just as General Faucille cleared his throat pointedly and all talk ceased.

"Thanks to this... mix-up," he began, sending a meaningful look at Colombe which suggested he knew full well it was anything but a mix-up, "We have seen some evidence of greater troop numbers in reserve than might be clearly visible by daylight, which, if accurate, is concerning. We will therefore arrange for further surveys to be done tonight. It would be helpful if those of you who have surveyed today will volunteer to lead a team back by night since you are already each familiar with your area, so please await further instructions from your officers. Dismissed."

There were several groans as the men filed quietly out, and d'Artagnan heard a few grumbles directed at him from men who had been looking forward to their beds and now faced a night-patrol. He was glad of Guérin by his shoulder as they gathered outside the command tent waiting for their officers to emerge. After one over-loud comment about "bloody Gascon – probably just tear-marks on his map!" Guérin had heard enough.

"Oy! If he said he saw fires, then he saw fires. We don't know what it means until we've had a better look but if he's saved our men from walking into battle completely out-numbered, I for one am grateful!"

"Well said," came a dry voice behind him as the officers started to emerge from the tent. Athos walked slowly past those who'd been grumbling, men who were suddenly fascinated by the state of their boots.

d'Artagnan could see Athos' lips twitching as he reached them. "Guérin, are you okay to lead a patrol to your area?"

"Yes Sir – although my bit was pretty flat and I can't believe I missed any troops."

Athos nodded. "Probably not. If any are hidden it will be on the wooded slopes and in the gullies. Alternatively they could be decoy fires to make us think twice about attacking. Therefore the patrols will go out three hours before dawn, and if extra fires are spotted in your area, you are to wait until dawn to verify if troops are present. Take five men with you. Make sure they are fresh and get some rest yourself first."

Guérin nodded, taking his map back from Athos and squeezing d'Artagnan's arm companionably before heading off.

"Where do you want me?" asked d'Artagnan, noticing that Athos had no more maps to hand out.

"You're off duty now. Rest that foot before it gets worse." Athos turned as if to go but d'Artagnan stopped him, puzzled.

"What about my official sector, the one I did by daylight? That will need – "

"Since you have already surveyed Lieutenant Colombe's sector by night, I thought it appropriate to suggest that he returns the favour and does the repeat survey of your sector." Only the gleam in Athos' eyes betrayed his satisfaction at being able to turn the tables on Colombe in this way.

Both men turned as the eponymous lieutenant stalked past, brushing close enough to d'Artagnan to knock his shoulder as he passed. Athos shot a hand out to steady the young Musketeer and opened his mouth to reprimand Colombe, but d'Artagnan spoke quickly. "Leave it, Athos. He's been shamed in front of everyone and needs an outlet. If not me it will be some other poor foot soldier under his command – or his horse," he added, watching the man grab his unfortunate mount roughly by the bit and drag it forward to a mounting block, whacking it on the backside when it didn't move fast enough.

Athos answered without thinking. "It's a shame you didn't display such control the other night, d'Artagnan." The reprimand hinted at a bitterness that took d'Artagnan's breath away and there was a moment's stillness between them which was not, by any stretch of the imagination, comfortable.

"I came to apologise for putting you in that position and you threw me out." d'Artagnan's tone was equally low and just as bitter. He was glaring at the ground so missed the look of pain which flashed across Athos' face at the reminder of how he'd yelled at his musketeer.

Athos struggled for words. There was so much to say, to put right, but now was not the time, with others still streaming past them and the camp bustling with activity. He was suddenly aware that he still had hold of d'Artagnan's arm, and dropped his hand abruptly. d'Artagnan glanced down, then drew himself up. "Permission to retire, Sir?"

Athos shook his head wearily, then caught d'Artagnan's look of confusion and realised he'd taken the gesture for a response. "No – I mean... Oh, just go."

d'Artagnan stalked off, trying to disguise his limp. How was _every_ thing his fault? All he wanted to do was settle back into camp life, have everyone forget that he was a survivor of captivity and just be left alone to do his job. And try to come to terms with everything that had happened – including, apparently, offending Porthos by trying to save his bloody hide. And Athos by forcing him to... he couldn't say it, even in his head. They both understood the other would regret the flogging; there was no question that it would have hurt Athos emotionally as much as it had hurt him physically. But, even if – when – they got over this awkwardness, that truth would always lie underneath. Athos had flogged him.

He suddenly folded over, feeling as if he'd been hit in the stomach as the truth hit him anew and a wave of misery flooded through him. He'd been so busy trying to hold his head up, so distracted with the battle, and Porthos being in danger, then wounded and angry, and moving camp, and bloody Colombe, and hiding the pain of his torn back and now his ankle so that he could just melt into the ranks and not, for once, please God, just not be the centre of attention... amidst all of that, somehow the true impact of what had happened was only just sinking in.

As if his name had been called, d'Artagnan raised his head and looked across at Athos' tent, in time to spot the man he respected above all others, standing by the entrance. In the darkness it was hard to see but he thought Athos was looking at him, and for a moment he seemed to turn as if to walk towards d'Artagnan. Then his head swung towards the tent as a hand appeared in the flap, and d'Artagnan knew Porthos must have called him. He saw Athos hesitate and couldn't bear to wait for the inevitable decision. Instead he straightened and headed for his tent, almost running in his haste to get away from everyone and everything.

The next morning passed in a blur of activity as scouts were sent out, plans drawn up and weapons readied. d'Artagnan only saw Athos at muster or from a distance as he consulted with the other Captains. He hadn't seen Porthos at all, not since the night of the battle.

When the others went for lunch he ducked into the medic's tent to quiz Etienne, but all he would say was that Porthos' wounds were not serious and were healing well. By the afternoon he was so desperate for news that when he saw Athos supervising the unloading of a supply wagon he made his way furtively over to Athos' tent and ducked inside, expecting to see Porthos recuperating there. But Porthos' bed had disappeared from the tent, along with his possessions. They must have moved it back into the tent he shared with Porthos.

Sighing, he turned to slip out again and found Athos standing in the doorway watching. d'Artagnan stammered out an apology, hating feeling that he had to apologise for entering his Captain's tent when, a few months before, he had come and gone without thought or remark, as a brother would. But then, he thought bitterly, the camp had been their own. Now they were part of the massive French army, and everything had changed.

"He's alright." Athos' voice was unexpectedly gentle as he stood aside to let d'Artagnan past. "He's taken reports to General Moises over near Navarre. It's a four hour ride and he needed some time to himself. He'll be back later tonight."

Heartened by Athos' words, d'Artagnan stopped, twisting his hands and worrying at his lip. Athos waited, patiently. "Is he still – angry – with me?" d'Artagnan eventually managed to ask, trying to sound conversational rather than desperate.

"No!" Athos sounded cross now and d'Artagnan didn't dare look at him. "d'Artagnan, he knows he was in the wrong, but he's – shaken. Just give him time."

d'Artagnan nodded, unable to speak for relief, not just at Athos' words but at the fact that he was speaking kindly.

Athos looked as if he wanted to say more, but then someone called his name and he sighed, looking up to see Captain Allard bustling over to him with a parchment. d'Artagnan hastily thanked him and headed off before Allard – well known for delegating work to anyone but his own men – could give him any extra duties.

That night d'Artagnan sheepishly asked Fouchard if he could bunk in his tent, and slept with his face buried in his pillow in case he disturbed his tent mates with nightmares again.


	13. There's a Pulse

_Author's Note: So everything should settle down to "normal" army life now, right? d'Artagnan has dived headlong into battle and partly recovered his self-respect, and Athos is regarding him kindly although the awkwardness is still there. All we need is a Porthos hug-apology and we should be done... but apparently I had other ideas that wanted to be written. The idea behind this third part of Battlescars was not only to explore the aftermath of d'Artagnan's time as a prisoner of war but also the effects of trying to live on the frontline, and the daily battle to reconcile the worst and best of being a human._

 _So today we see another aspect of war which you may find uncomfortable. It's a sad truth of every conflict that it's not just the soldiers who suffer, and it happens time and again in different countries, between different peoples. Our beautiful boys deal with it the best they can, and the next two chapters continue Porthos' story arc. I dedicate it to anyone who has suffered the consequences of humankind's violence, and I give you my prayer, that we never lose sight of what makes us awesome: the ability to find a moment of stillness and hope amidst the mayhem around us._

* * *

 _ **Chapter Ten: There's a Pulse**_

 _Aribe_

The following morning d'Artagnan stopped on his way back from fetching water, watching a horseman as he appeared on the ridge above the camp, thundering down the track at a suicidally-fast canter. His heart thumped: he would know that silhouette anywhere. Fouchard followed his gaze. "What's that about then, I wonder?"

d'Artagnan turned and started running towards the gate. "I don't know, but it's Porthos. Come on!"

They reached the gate at the same time as Porthos but he shot straight past them without a glance. d'Artagnan saw him skid to a halt outside Athos' tent and fling himself off.

"Was he out on his own?"

"Yes but he should have been back last night." He watched as Porthos dropped his reins and pushed straight into Athos' tent. Something was seriously wrong.

Fouchard nudged him. "Go."

d'Artagnan shook his head, slowly, something sour twisting in his stomach. There was nothing he wanted more than to race over and join his two old friends. But he couldn't, because he knew he would not be welcome. Instead he walked slowly towards the centre of the musketeer camp where muster was due to be held in a few minutes, seeing other musketeers do the same as word spread that something was up.

A few moments later Athos emerged, looking as inscrutable as always. But d'Artagnan was close enough to see the pinched look around his eyes, and knew he was pushing down some deep emotion.

Athos looked around, saw d'Artagnan and hesitated. Visibly. d'Artagnan scowled and turned away, nearly crashing into Fouchard who was standing right behind him. "Dammit!" snapped d'Artagnan, sidestepping and trying to move past him. But he suddenly heard Athos calling out his name.

Closing his eyes to shut out the sight of Fouchard's anxious face peering at him, he turned slowly to face Athos. "Captain?"

Athos's expression suddenly sagged, and he shook his head. "No matter," he muttered, turning away, missing the look of pain that crossed d'Artagnan's face.

Athos called muster a few minutes later. "Before I allocate the normal duties, I will need some volunteers. Lieutenant Porthos has come across something: a French village, Aribe, which was behind Spanish lines for several months and liberated when our troops advanced. Porthos returned from his mission that way and noticed that there were ... signs of something amiss. I will need volunteers to investigate, and clean up the village. From what he told me ... there are no survivors."

A murmur of shock ran around the assembled Musketeers. d'Artagnan looked around, seeing expressions of doubt, disgust, fear and reticence on various faces. He sighed, and stepped forwards. "I volunteer, Sir."

Athos's head snapped around and he gave d'Artagnan a long look, but didn't acknowledge his offer.

"I'll help, Captain."

The voice was Fouchard's and suddenly d'Artagnan had an inkling of how Athos must sometimes feel. "No, Fouchard, this isn't one for you," he told him in a low voice.

"Rubbish. The Captain needs volunteers, and I volunteered. Just like you." Fouchard's voice was low but determined, and d'Artagnan realised he would not be dissuaded from this chance to show his mettle.

"I'll go." Guérin added his voice, and another couple of men stepped forward in quick succession until Athos had enough volunteers. Nodding his thanks, Athos handed Guérin, as the most senior of them since d'Artagnan's demotion, a hastily-drawn map with directions to the village and dismissed them before carrying on issuing duties for the remaining musketeers still mustered.

d'Artagnan saddled Nuit quickly then told Guérin he would collect some medical supplies from Julien in the infirmary. That done, he hesitated, looking over to the horselines. The other volunteers were still milling around collecting gear and saddling their horses. Athos was nowhere in sight. Resolutely, d'Artagnan detoured towards the Captain's tent and peered cautiously inside.

As he'd suspected, Porthos was still in there – sitting motionless on the edge of Athos' bed at the back of the tent. He slipped inside and crossed quickly to his side, alarmed by Porthos' lack of response. He was staring down at his hands where they lay clasped on his knees, and didn't raise his head. Hesitantly, d'Artagnan sat beside Porthos and looked at him, seeing his face properly now.

The sight of silent tears trickling slowly down the big man's cheeks literally took his breath away, clamping tight bands around his chest and sending his stomach plummeting. As he looked on the despairing face of this man who never faltered, never gave up, who relished every moment of life, d'Artagnan's own world tilted and rocked on its axis.

He didn't think he'd ever seen Porthos cry.

He could hear the sounds of horses and men outside and knew he didn't have long, but inside the gloomy tent nothing stirred and he knew he couldn't leave Porthos like this. Resolutely he reached out and placed his warm hand on Porthos', alarmed at how chilled it felt. "God, Porthos, you're freezing!" he blurted, without preamble. Porthos' head lifted and he looked at d'Artagnan, seeming surprised to see him there. He heaved in a shuddering breath then simply sagged sideways to lean his whole body against d'Artagnan, who braced his feet to steady himself, and wrapped both arms around Porthos, feeling the silent tremors rippling through his body.

"Porthos, listen to me." Relieved beyond measure that Porthos was not pushing him away, as he'd feared, d'Artagnan pulled Porthos closer so his head rested on d'Artagnan's chest and held him tight. "We're going to Aribe. Guérin, me, Fouchard, Metier, Reynard, Duval, Lanoux and Nicholas. We're going to ..." What were they going to do? He didn't know what they would find, yet, but Porthos' reaction told him it would be bad. What could he say without making the images in Porthos' head worse? "We're going to set that village straight and ... and leave it looking calm, and peaceful, the way it should. I promise we'll do it right, Porthos, I promise."

He felt Porthos' breathing deepen and his clenched fingers relax a little. "You need to sleep, _mon ami._ Come on." He shifted ready to stand up, thinking he would take Porthos to his tent and hoping he'd have time to settle him before Guérin and the others were ready to set off. But Porthos' weight simply slid into the gap as d'Artagnan leaned forward to stand, and before he knew it Porthos had flopped face down onto the bed, his eyes already closing.

"Oh, _merde_ ," d'Artagnan muttered, panicking and pulling fruitlessly at the nearest arm. He didn't think Athos would be too impressed to find...

"Leave him." d'Artagnan's head snapped around so fast he heard something click in his neck. Athos was standing in the tent opening. How long had he been there? He leapt to his feet as Athos headed for the crate containing his belongings. He lifted out a spare blanket and tossed it to d'Artagnan who caught it by reflex rather than design.

"Athos, I'm sorry, I meant to take him to his tent but he – "

"I saw. He's better here where I can keep an eye on him." Athos' voice was expressionless but d'Artagnan knew him well enough to pick up on the deep concern in his voice, the tight lines around his eyes. He nodded, and unfolded the blanket to tuck it around Porthos' exhausted frame, stooping to lift his legs properly onto the bed, tugging his boots off. Athos watched him, eyes hooded, his arms folded and one hip propped on his desk. When Porthos was settled, Athos cleared his throat. "Time you were off: the others are waiting."

"Right. Sorry." d'Artagnan eased his neck and straightened, heading resolutely for the opening, but as he passed Athos a hand shot out and caught him by the elbow. d'Artagnan stopped, startled, his eyes meeting Athos' properly for the first time in a week.

"Thanks."

One word. How could one word affect him so deeply? d'Artagnan felt as if warm liquid was flowing down his throat, melting the core of ice that had blocked him since _that night._ For all he'd spoken to him in his capacity as Captain since then, this was the first time Athos had sounded like he was speaking to a friend.

Hed'Artagnan swallowed and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Athos dropped his hand, and d'Artagnan headed out of the tent walking on air.

* * *

His euphoria lasted a whole hour, until their horses picked their way out of an olive grove and they had their first glimpse of the village ahead. Thirty or forty adobe and stone houses rambled up the low slopes of the valley, clustered around the tower of a chapel. They were all immediately struck by the unnatural silence. Midmorning, even in early winter, a village this size should be bustling with activity as people went about the chores of daily living. There should be animals lowing and men calling from the fields; children playing; smoke drifting from chimneys; mothers chatting to one another as they swept the dust from their doorways and scrubbed clothes in the river: but he could see no signs of movement; no stock in the fields; nothing stirring the air.

Then they rounded a twist in the track and the smell reached them for the first time: the unmistakeable, sickly stench of death.

Fouchard, riding beside d'Artagnan, made an inarticulate sound. d'Artagnan glanced but could think of nothing to say. Ahead of them Guérin slowed his mount, then stopped, letting the others come up alongside. For a moment no one spoke, all eyes on the village – and on the body they could see lying on the track they were following. It was a few paces from the first house, and sprawled face down, hands outstretched, as if the woman – for her bright skirts were clearly visible – had simply dropped as she ran.

d'Artagnan looked at Guérin, waiting for a lead, but the fair-haired sub-lieutenant seemed transfixed by the scene ahead. d'Artagnan puffed out a breath before speaking quietly. "Perhaps we should leave the horses here, Guérin. They won't get too stressed at the smell if we tie them under those trees."

Guérin jumped, as if he'd forgotten anyone else was there, and looked around. "Yes. Good idea. Thanks, d'Artagnan."

d'Artagnan had no problem with following the orders of a superior officer, but he and Guérin had been equals not so long ago, and he could see Guérin's hands were trembling as he tied his horse next to d'Artagnan's in the shade of some trees by the river. He looked overwhelmed by what lay ahead, and d'Artagnan knew he would need all the support he could offer.

As the others dismounted d'Artagnan pulled out a jar of a thick ointment which he smeared around his nostrils, then handed it to Guérin. "Julien uses it when gathering bodies from the older battlefields. It's got cloves and lavender in – helps to mask the smell." Guérin took it, grateful for d'Artagnan's foresight in bringing it, and passed it around the others.

They set off down the track, carrying shovels and picks, walking side by side in silence. When they reached the body of the woman all of them stopped, and Guérin knelt beside her. When he stood, his face was bleak. "She was shot in the back," he told them with a slight break in his voice.

d'Artagnan looked towards the houses a few paces ahead, already seeing the next body – a young boy, sprawled half out of the doorway of his house. Anger surged in him – anger at whoever had done this, whoever was responsible for this slaughter, for destroying this beautiful village and all the people in it, all their dreams, their hard work, their futures. And under that was anger that they had to deal with it. That Porthos had been on his own when he'd found it. And that these young musketeers, looking helpless and overwhelmed, would be the ones to pick up the pieces of this carnage.

d'Artagnan took a step away from the others and breathed hard for a few moments, feeling the anger surging through his body and channelling it, as he had done so many times before over so many different atrocities. He hardened his heart. There was nothing to be done except deal with this and move on.

His decisive turn drew the attention of the others and he spoke before he could lose his nerve.

"Nothing about this is going to be good, but it won't get better by waiting. We deal with it. Don't think about what you're doing. Don't think about who they were. They are just bodies and they deserve a burial and that's what we're here for. We'll think about it afterwards, when we're back in camp. Right now we just need to get on with it." He spoke quietly but firmly and found them all nodding.

Guérin visibly gathered himself. "The first thing is to gather the bodies – in the square, perhaps. I'll take a look and see if there's space."

He looked along the track but d'Artagnan stopped him. "We also need to find a suitable burial spot. Maybe we could gather the bodies and take them straight there, rather than to the square – it might save handling them twice."

Guérin nodded, grateful for the suggestion and the support d'Artagnan was giving. "Good idea. Reynard, Duval, we'll need somewhere with soft ground, maybe down towards the river. There'll be a lot of digging. Find us in the village as soon as you've identified a site." The rest of them started walking reluctantly towards the main huddle of houses.

"I think it would be good to work in pairs today," d'Artagnan said quietly.

"Agreed."

They stopped in what was clearly the village centre, where a rough square was overlooked by several larger houses. There was a stone well in the centre of the square, a water trough and a couple of roughly carved benches around a plane tree which gave welcome shade to the open space. A well-trodden path led up towards the chapel, a white-washed building with a square bell-tower, set on the slope above the square.

It should have been a peaceful scene but instead it was the stuff of nightmares, with blood-drenched bodies, swarming with flies, everywhere they looked.

d'Artagnan crossed to the well, stepping carefully around the body of a young girl, no more than five, and a woman whose hand was outstretched as if she was trying to reach her child. He leaned into the well opening, breathing the dank air gratefully and using the excuse of checking it to recover himself. Biting his lower lip savagely he took his own advice, repeating in his head "they're just bodies. It's just a job." After a moment he was able to turn and face the others, most of them just standing staring around but one or two starting to wander, tentatively peering into the shadowed interiors of the nearest houses.

"The rope's cut. Keep a look out for a bucket; this is going to be hot work so we'll need water if the well hasn't been contaminated."

Guérin nodded but he looked shaken and lost. d'Artagnan tried to give him a lead. "We'll work in pairs. Fouchard, you want to work with me?"

Fouchard was one of those who had not yet moved from where he'd come to a stop in the square. He looked at d'Artagnan, his eyes wide and desperate, shaking his head. "I don't think... I can't do this! I'm sorry, I just ... can't!" The last word came out in a kind of wail.

d'Artagnan swallowed, glancing at Guérin, but he looked just as lost as Fouchard sounded. The other three had stopped to listen and all looked just as overwhelmed.

"Fouchard, you can do this. You know why?"

The young musketeer shook his dark head.

"Because these people _need_ us. We are _not_ leaving _one_ person here to be picked over by rats and crows, do you hear me?" The anger was leaking into his voice now and he let it. "We give them a decent burial. We _lay them to rest_." The last four words emphasised, dark eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. Compelling them to listen. "We clean this village. We leave it looking peaceful and cared for, the way they made it. We do this for them, and we do it properly, because we're Musketeers. We don't weep and wail, we just do it." Voice firm now, and mesmerizing. No other sound but the stirring of a breeze in the plane tree and the rasp of crows, circling overhead, waiting to resume their meal.

"Fouchard, find the others. We need to know where we're burying them. Go!" He would be better for some fierce action. Watching with satisfaction as Fouchard visibly jumped, then raced off. "Metier, Nicolas, start searching the houses. Bring out everyone you find and place them just outside their houses. Lanoux, find a bucket for the well and test the water. Guérin and I will search the rest of the village. Tell Fouchard to find us as soon as he knows where the burial site will be. We'll change roles after an hour. Get moving!"

Suddenly remembering he was no longer an officer he looked at Guérin again, checking he hadn't overstepped the mark, and saw only gratitude, and new resolve as Guérin clapped d'Artagnan softly on his shoulder, and jerked his chin at the pathway leading up to the chapel. "Let's begin up there."

Gradually they settled into some kind of rhythm. Nicolas had found a cart and taken the back off, to make it easier to load. Lanoux rigged a bucket for the well and declared it was clean; they made use of the cooling water frequently, and gratefully, every time they passed. Fouchard had conquered his revulsion and was now working steadily with Metier, handkerchiefs pulled over their noses and mouths to protect them from the flies as much as the scent of death.

Each time the cart was full two of them took turns to haul it down to a field near the river which held the stubble of a maize crop, making it easier to dig than established pasture. They laid the bodies in a row above the growing burial hole, and swopped places with the men digging.

d'Artagnan didn't know which job was worse: dragging the bodies from where they'd fallen and loading them on the cart, or hacking at the stony ground in the maize field, with nothing but the flap of crows and the buzz of flies for company.

After three hours Guérin called a halt. They lit a small fire in the square – no one wanted to intrude into any of the houses – and made a tea of water mint and eucalyptus leaves; not the most warming of drinks but all they could find, and it gave them an excuse to stop for a few minutes. No one felt like eating but d'Artagnan had picked some young oranges and a few wizened apples on his way back from the burial site and they shared those.

They'd cleared most of the village but still had the outlying farms and smallholdings to check. They'd found every third or fourth house empty, as if their owners had retreated before the advancing Spanish forces had arrived in their valley. Those that remained with their homes had paid the ultimate price, but d'Artagnan wondered what had happened to those who'd fled. He thought about Marcus and Madeleine, the refugee orphans adopted by the Musketeers for a few months last year before the fighting got too intense and they'd had to find them a farming family to live with. He prayed everyone in their village was safe.

He'd tried really hard to take his own advice, pushing all thoughts of the victims aside and concentrating only on the mechanics of the job: S _earch. Lift. Carry. Dig_. But the sound of picks attacking the soil, the stench, and the stickiness of blood on his hands no matter how many times he washed them, gave him constant flashbacks to his worst memories. Digging his father's grave in the deluge outside Paris; the stink from the body in the _oubliette_ when he'd been captured by the Spanish;all the friends they'd gathered from battlefields over the last two years, all the bodies – French and Spanish – he'd stepped over in battle. All the waste. The internal battle to stop his mind from spiralling into a hellish pit of self-destructive thoughts was as bad as anything else they had to cope with, today.

He looked around at his companions, sprawled around the unwelcome midday heat, sweat making clean rivers down their cheeks like tear tracks. They'd all struggled at times during the morning, and Fouchard still looked as if he couldn't decide whether to cry or throw up.

"What do you think about making them a memorial?" He blurted it out without forethought, the words coming directly from his subconscious thoughts.

"What do you mean?"

"Like a cross or something?"

"I could do that." Duval, eager. "I've done it before." It was true; he was a good woodsman and his carving skill was often called on when they had to bury one of their own.

But d'Artagnan was looking for a way to help Fouchard, who looked like he was drowning, not Duval, who seemed to be coping better than most. So he nodded his agreement but chewed his lip, watching Fouchard sag against the wall of the well, hands curled tightly around his cup, not drinking. "What if we found things to put around it?"

They all looked at him, waiting. "Um..." He hadn't thought this through yet. "Something that describes who they are. Were."

"But we don't know who they were." Incomprehension on Reynard's face.

The idea grew. "Yes we do." He paused, trying to pin his thoughts down with words. "They were good people. They built strong houses. They carved beautiful things for their homes. They loved their children." It was true: the children's clothes were cared for, carefully patched, and there were wooden dolls and hobby horses and hoops in almost every home. "We could collect something from each house – nothing big, just something that looks loved."

"Like a doll – I found one girl holding hers. I left it but I know where it is." Fouchard, catching on, enthusiastic now.

"One house had a pottery in the back and some gorgeous bowls and platters." Reynard, getting up.

d'Artagnan looked at Guérin. It would take extra time to do, but he was nodding his approval, and within moments they were all at work again but with renewed energy. They would make something good happen in this place.

* * *

It was late afternoon before they finished laying the bodies in the burial trench. Climbing out wearily, d'Artagnan looked at the memorial they had created, and his breath caught in his throat. It had been growing all afternoon but now, silhouetted against the setting sun, with the lazy swirl of the river behind, it was spell-binding.

Rather than make a cross, Duval had stripped a small rowan tree, cutting selected branches until it formed a three-dimensional cross from whichever direction it was viewed. Then they had dug it up and moved it to a spot just below the burial site. At this time of year, being a small tree, Duval thought there was a chance it would take root in its new home, but if not he hoped it would weather and harden as the leaves dropped, creating a lasting monument.

As they came across suitable items they brought them to the tree and hung some from its branches: a wooden spoon, darkened from years of stirring; a horseshoe; a deep blue jug, tied by the handle; a child's bright bow, carefully refastened by Fouchard around one of the branches. Around the base they laid larger items – a plough share; a milk pail; more pottery. A miniature wooden cart, made with love by a father so his young son could "help" in the fields. Not too much: they left the more precious or delicate items left in the homes, for relatives or friends to find, one day, when it was safe to travel in this area again. But enough to say: 'We lived here, we loved, we laughed, we died here - and someone cared'.

Lost in thought, d'Artagnan almost missed the first shout. "Riders!" Hands snapped to weapons as they scrambled to collect discarded pistols. He squinted, shading his eyes with his free hand, then held a calming hand out to the side.

"It's Athos, and Porthos. And someone else."

Everyone relaxed. The horses came closer, trailed by a dust plume, and soon they could all see what d'Artagnan had recognised by instinct long before the details were clear. They walked to meet them, stopping on the track near where they'd found the first body that morning. As the riders drew to a halt d'Artagnan saw the third man was a young priest, looking around apprehensively.

Athos slid off his horse and looked over their shoulders to the maize field from which they'd emerged onto the track. "How are you doing?" he asked.

Guérin filled him in on the day's findings – they'd collected almost 40 bodies in the end, and were confident the area was now clear. They just had to fill in the grave now, so the priest had arrived in perfect time. Athos nodded, eyes scrutinising each face carefully, then turned to help the priest dismount. He looked at Porthos for a moment, then handed his and the priest's reins to Porthos without comment, and moved off towards the burial site.

d'Artagnan hesitated, looking at Porthos. The big man was staring off into the distance, in the direction of the village square, and d'Artagnan realised he would be remembering it as it was when he'd found it. Had it been last night, on his way back? Had he spent the night here, walking around the ghostly village? Or had he been delayed and travelled past here early this morning? On his own, tired after a long ride, super-vigilant: how would this have looked in the dawn light? It had been hard enough for them all, today, working together and able to talk quietly, feeling they were doing some good. For Porthos on his own, unprepared and unsupported...

He recognised the look on Porthos' face. He'd seen it enough on other faces when someone had just had enough. Sometimes it was all just too much, and this was that moment for Porthos. It was clear the burly musketeer did not want to talk and he knew, he _knew_ , Porthos would not want anyone to notice how close to breaking point he was. And yet he was here. He had given them directions this morning: Athos could have come alone, or with another escort, but Porthos was here.

Carefully, moving slowly, d'Artagnan reached up to Porthos' hand where he clutched the reins, and extracted those of the other horses. Leading them to where their own mounts were tethered, he tethered them alongside then returned to Porthos, who had not moved other than to track his actions with his eyes.

d'Artagnan reached a hand up and waited.

Porthos drew in the longest breath, and sighed it out.

Then he dropped his reins into d'Artagnan's hand, and dismounted slowly.

d'Artagnan breathed an inward sigh of relief and tethered Flip with the others, returning to Porthos' side and, after a tiny hesitation, tucking his arm under his friend's. "Come. We did a good thing here, today."

He said nothing more, feeling Porthos' body held rigid next to his as they walked towards the others, feeling his steps slow as they neared the grave. He tucked his arm closer to his side so Porthos could feel him breathing, feel his warmth.

They stopped close enough to see into the mass grave. Porthos didn't look, at first, but as they listened to the priest intone the words d'Artagnan felt him shift and knew he was lowering his eyes to the broken bodies within. His breathing quickened and d'Artagnan felt him tense, as if he would break away. Stubbornly d'Artagnan tightened his grip on Porthos' arm, and gradually felt the tension subside, heard Porthos' breathing steady again.

The familiar words of the burial rites wrapped around them.

" _Fratres: Nolumus vos ignorare de dormientibus, ut non contristemini, sicut et ceteri, qui spem non habent. Si enim credimus quo Iesus mortuus est et resurrexit; ita et Deus eos qui dormierunt per Iesum, adducet cum eo"._ d'Artagnan had only studied a bit of Latin at school, but the words were familiar to him from his childhood, where the entire neighbourhood attended any funeral out of respect and support. _Brethren: We will not have you ignorant concerning them that are asleep, that you be not sorrowful, even as others who have no hope; for if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them who have slept through Jesus, will God bring with Him.*_

Aramis would have done this better, he found himself thinking suddenly; Aramis was a soldier first and foremost and would understand the pain they all felt at this unwanted consequence of their profession. A visceral pain shot through his gut at the thought of the comfort it would give to have Aramis standing with them both, now, and he struggled to regain control for a moment.

" _Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis."_ Eternal rest give to them, O Lord; and let perpetual light shine upon them. He wished those words could apply to the living, as well; there were plenty of damaged souls standing here who needed some rest from the thoughts torturing their dreams. The priest moved on to the Sequence and d'Artagnan deliberately tuned out after the first words. " _Dies irae, dies illa_ ": Day of wrath and doom impending. God knows they could do without more impending doom! Luckily the priest either didn't know all 19 verses of the Sequence, or perhaps he saw from the shifting of feet that he was losing his audience, and moved swiftly on to the offertory.

" _...libera animas omnium fidelium defunctorum de poenis inferni et de profundi lacu: libera eas de ore leonis, ne absorbeat eas_ _tartarus, ne cadant in obscurum: sed signifer sanctus Michael repraesentet eas in lucem sanctam"._ Deliver the souls of all the faithful departed from the pains of hell and from the bottomless pit: deliver them from the lion's mouth, that hell swallow them not up, that they fall not into darkness, but let the standard-bearer, holy Michael, lead them into that holy light. This time it was Porthos who stiffened, shifting impatiently at the mention of the 'bottomless pit' of hell. Was this really supposed to comfort the bereaved? d'Artagnan leaned automatically into Porthos, lending him the support and warmth of his body, and felt Porthos subside again.

Finally, hurrying a little more now, the priest reached the Absolution & burial.

" _Libera nos, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda: Quando coeli movendi sunt et terra"_ : Deliver me, O Lord, from death eternal in that awful day. When the heavens and the earth shall be moved. _Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine._ _Et lux perpetua luceat eis. Requiescat in pace._ Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them, may they rest in peace."

They gave their "amen" with varying degrees of relief. Then the priest made the sign of the cross in the air, then turned and repeated it to those standing around the grave. d'Artagnan felt unexpected tears prickle at the back of his eyes. If only it were that easy to find peace!

Athos walked back to the horses with the priest, but as they passed d'Artagnan and Porthos the young pastor paused, looking at them both, then reached out to lay a hand flat on each of their chests, over their hearts. He bowed his head for a moment, mouthing something under his breath, then gave them a shy smile and moved off again.

d'Artagnan looked at Porthos, unable to articulate his feelings at that moment. It felt as if he could feel the warmth of the priest's touch on his skin, even through his leather doublet. It conveyed something like forgiveness, something like understanding. It felt as if blood was flowing back into a wizened, blackened part of his heart. It felt as if he could breathe again, just for a moment.

Suddenly energised, he released Porthos' arm and reached out to take the shovel from Fouchard's hands as the other man moved to start filling in the grave. "I'll do this. You go and get the horses ready – all of you."

No one argued with a volunteer for a job like this. It was the very worst part, thought d'Artagnan, half regretting his impulse as he scooped up the first shovel-full of earth and trickled it delicately into the hole. There was something completely alien, utterly _wrong_ about covering someone's face with earth, even though they were long dead. He worked from their feet upwards, trying not to look as the first layer of earth neared the long row of heads and some grains spilled onto lips and eyes. His moment of energy had left him long before he felt a hand on his and looked up, surprised, to find Porthos silently taking the shovel from him.

d'Artagnan rested for a few minutes, then found the second shovel and worked alongside Porthos, listening to the sound of their spades digging rhythmically into the soil, and the wind fluttering the leaves on the memorial they'd made, and the sound of Porthos breathing alongside him, feeling oddly comforted.

* * *

When they reached camp again, Athos told them all to take the rest of the evening off, and headed to his tent with Porthos who had still not spoken a word to d'Artagnan or anyone else. d'Artagnan dragged Guérin off to the river to bathe, and this time Fouchard came with them even though he hated swimming and rarely got more than his feet wet. d'Artagnan took off his doublet but left everything else on, feeling a desperate need to scrub the smell of death from his clothes, and the others followed suit, simply wading into the river and sinking below the water as soon as it reached their knees. No one stayed in long – the sun was already setting and the winter water felt icy cold – but d'Artagnan, at least, felt refreshed on emerging, although Fouchard was clearly regretting getting his leather breeches wet. "How will we get them dry?" he kept fussing, until d'Artagnan threatened to dump him back in the river again.

They were late for the evening meal but Chonfleur seemed to know every man's whereabouts and always kept enough food back for those who were on duty and missed the regular mealtimes, and tonight he produced, with a broad beam, a rabbit stew. d'Artagnan had frequently been urged to put his catapult to use since the food poisoning incident, and it had become a favourite treat amongst the Musketeers, but he hadn't been hunting for days and gave Chonfleur a quizzical look as he accepted a steaming bowl and sniffed it, appreciatively. Chonfleur winked at him. "Got a few sources in the other regiments after they tasted your stew, lad." d'Artagnan grinned.

As he sat down, he was delighted to see Porthos looming in the tent doorway, and waved him over. After a moment's hesitation, the big man came to sit with them. Fouchard quickly collected a bowl of stew for him which Porthos accepted without comment. He didn't eat much, and didn't join the conversation, but the others took d'Artagnan's lead and simply talked around him, meaningless chatter about their cold feet and whether to sit by the fire or just hit the sack.

When they'd finished, it seemed natural to d'Artagnan to walk with Porthos, and the others tactfully melted off in different directions. When they reached the tent they normally shared, d'Artagnan hesitated, until Porthos sighed and turned him in the direction of Fouchard's tent where he'd slept the night before.

d'Artagnan's heart plummeted as he realised he must have misjudged the situation. For a moment he couldn't believe it: although they'd not exchanged any words about the argument, he'd felt as close to Porthos today as ever, and had been so sure that Porthos would welcome him back into the tent they normally shared.

"Get your bloody stuff then – an' don't wake me up when you come in," Porthos rumbled grumpily in his ear, giving him a gentle shove to get going.

d'Artagnan knew he was grinning stupidly as he collected his belongings from Fouchard's tent, but he couldn't help it, as another of the bands of pain around his heart relinquished its hold.

* * *

 _* Excerpts taken from the Traditional Latin Mass (I found it on missale dot heliohost dot org). Don't ask me where my fascination with Latin prayers comes from (I blame Aramis) but I thought the Musketeers would be very familiar with the funeral rites by now. I was raised a Protestant but often accompanied a friend to catholic services while at university, and remember the rituals feeling vaguely familiar but horrendously long and often full of doom and haranguing, compared to the sanitised Protestant version of the same service. I find it interesting to explore the effect these well-known words would have on the soldiers during war. And I just like the sound of the words._


	14. Empty

_Apologies for a longer gap between chapters; it's been a busy week. But today the sun is shining, our charity car wash is done and now I have some "me-time". So this one is for your "you-time" and especially for Coffeecup35, Porthos' staunchest supporter._

 **Chapter 11: Empty**

He woke from the best sleep he'd had in days with a feeling that something was wrong. For a moment he lay listening, hearing only the sounds of a frontline camp at night: someone talking by the fire, a quiet exchange further away as two guards met on night patrol; the faint snoring of exhausted men in the tents surrounding them.

And silence in his own tent.

He shot upright. Porthos' bed was empty. Glancing automatically at the tent flap he could see the inky-darkness of the night sky. His gut told him it was late night, rather than early morning. He unfurled himself from his blanket back and leaned across to feel Porthos' mattress. It was still faintly warm, so Porthos could not have been up more than a few minutes, but his side of the tent was devoid of boots, doublet or weapons. Feeling uneasy – surely if Porthos was relieving himself, or hungry, or ill, he would not have taken weapons with him – d'Artagnan hastened out of the tent and checked the camp fire, the latrines, the mess tent and the medical tent in quick succession, with no success.

Standing still, hands on hips, d'Artagnan looked around the silent camp again. Where was he? He couldn't explain why he was so anxious but he knew he couldn't sleep without finding him. Porthos had been so distant since the battle at Orbara where he'd lost so many men, and had then been deeply affected by finding the ravaged village, and d'Artagnan knew that he was struggling. Where would he go?

Inspiration struck and he raced over to Athos' tent, but the darkness and sound of snoring from within told its own story. Just in case Porthos had snuck in anyway, he unlaced the flap enough to stick his head around but could see only Athos, sprawled out on his back with an arm across his eyes, clearly asleep. He debated waking him but quickly decided Athos needed the sleep as much as anyone, and besides, the same instinct that drove his unease also told him to respect Porthos' privacy tonight.

He scanned the Musketeer camp again. Each regiment had their own area, their own mess tent and camp fire, but he didn't think Porthos would be visiting any other regiments' camps at this time of night.

He shivered. The nights were getting cold as winter set in, and it was dawning on him that he was in his braes and shirt, and barefoot. He jogged quickly back to their tent, ducked inside and shoved his feet into boots, grabbed his doublet and weapons, then stood outside to scan the skyline as he did up buckles and belts.

Suddenly he froze. There! A figure was moving amongst the trees on the rising ground beyond the camp. Was that him?

He ran quietly across the muddy centre of camp, dodging between tents and leaping ropes and tent pegs, through the horse lines and up the slope, but when he reached the place where he'd spotted the figure, the clearing was empty.

Breathing heavily, he spun slowly around, hand on sword hilt, cursing the clouds obscuring the half moon. He scanned the ground but could see nothing of note; no signature trail of large footprints, no helpfully discarded scarf to indicate Porthos had been here.

On the other side of the clearing was a slope leading down to an animal trail he'd used when hunting rabbits, but that was well outside the camp boundaries. Here, he was still within view of the camp but once out of view, technically he could be accused of deserting. But then again, if it was Porthos he had seen here, it seemed he had left the camp and he surely didn't have permission either, and if that were the case, d'Artagnan wasn't about to let him stay out there alone. He had a feeling Porthos needed a friend, tonight.

He decided to check the trail. If he was spotted by the perimeter patrol he could always say he was laying snares. Most of the camp had enjoyed his rabbits at one time or another so unless Colombe was on duty he'd probably get away with it. Mind made up, he slid quietly down the hill and started to jog along the trail.

* * *

Porthos had not intended to leave the camp. At least, he didn't think he had. Then again he was beginning to wonder at the workings of his mind, because he didn't normally bother to put his weapons on to visit the latrine. But this night, when he'd woken needing to pee, he'd watched his fingers picking up his weapons belt and hadn't asked himself why he was doing it.

He'd relieved himself, then stood looking up at the sky for a moment, shivering in the cold air. For some reason he kept thinking about Aramis tonight. Maybe it was the burial service for those villagers. He could remember far too many times watching his brother stooping over a body, murmuring a few words and crossing himself, then gently closing the eyelids of someone they'd found, or someone they'd killed. It was a ritual that Porthos had always found calmed him. It marked the end of violence and the start of healing.

He'd never had a problem with fighting, or killing. He'd killed his first man when he was thirteen, in a knife-fight in the Court. It wasn't his choice but he'd had to stand his ground. He'd fought plenty of times with fists by then, and had long learned when to fight and when to vanish. But that day he'd been spotted, and the man whose purse he'd stolen had drawn his sword; his court friends had vanished, and he'd been left watching the man advance towards him, heart thundering in his chest. He'd warned the man to leave it, even offered his purse back, but the nobleman obviously wanted to teach the street urchin a lesson. Porthos had remembered his own knife which until then he'd only ever used for cutting purse strings and sharing food, and – backed against a wall by the complacent nobleman – he'd drawn it from his boot in desperation. They'd struggled, blades jabbing and slashing, and then the nobleman had slipped and Porthos' blade had cut his neck – just nicked him, almost without meaning to. And he'd bled to death in front of him.

No Aramis back then to make it all right. Porthos had left him there and legged it, then realised he was still holding the purse and circled back to return it, horrified that the few coins inside had driven him to murder. Then went back again to retrieve it, thinking at least he could feed his gang of orphans. Trying to make it feel alright. And it had, eventually. They had eaten well for a week, and Porthos had told himself he'd given the man a chance to back down, so it wasn't his fault.

But that killing had never sat well in his memory, so Porthos had learned to read the signs, to temper his strength, and pick his targets more wisely, so he didn't have to kill again. And when, sometimes, it still all went wrong, he'd learned to deal with the guilt. Even so, inflicting injury for his own gain had never felt right, and when Tréville had offered him a commission in the Musketeers, he had thought about it, but not for too long. To be able to use his strength and street skills for a good reason and be respected for what he did – to get paid for it, and feel proud to be part of a family that fought for good, not just to survive – that was compelling.

And since then, he'd been at peace with himself. He'd found friendship, brotherhood, a purpose in life. He was good at it, and he wasn't hungry anymore. He slept well at night, even when he'd killed, because he always understood why he'd done it, and he made sure he only killed when there was no other option.

For this reason he'd never had a problem dealing with death, either. He'd accepted long ago that he would die in battle, and he was fine with that. He had no family to mourn him – apart from his brothers, and they would be fighting alongside him. He didn't want to die a trivial death. He didn't want to die in his bed, or in some brawl over cards. He'd come close to that, a few times in the early days, and he'd been grateful when first Aramis, and then Athos, came along to watch over him when he got carried away. It was years since he'd thought about dying in anything other than the "right" way: standing by his brothers, protecting them, fighting for king and country, for a noble cause that he could be proud of.

But now Death had his claws in Porthos, and was stalking him in the shadows. Not his death, but that of his brothers. The men in his care. The ones he'd sworn to protect. Six of them, cut down in front of him and behind him, while he'd roared and slashed and struggled against an endless stream of Spanish uniforms. He'd survived – thanks to d'Artagnan and all those who rallied to that mad dash down the hill – but six men had died around him and he hadn't been able to protect them. And more – how many more – had died in the effort to rescue his men from that ravine? And how many were now lying groaning in agony, their wounds eating away at them? How many would not survive to fight again, or would be sent home, maimed, destined to live off charity for the rest of their lives?

He hadn't helped to bury them; he'd been lying on a cot in the medical tent when their graves were dug. He'd begged Athos to send him out of camp after that because he couldn't bear to look at anyone, couldn't bear to see the accusations in their eyes. And then he'd found that village, and spent the night sitting in the square, hugging his knees, watching over their bodies, waiting for Death to come back and claim him.

In the morning he'd risen stiffly to his feet, hardly able to believe he was still alive, for surely he deserved to die? Why was he still living, when so many good people were dead all around him? He'd ridden back to camp, far too fast, half hoping his horse would trip and hurl him off; taunting death, raging in his head for Death to come and get him.

Because he'd had enough.

He didn't want to fight any more. He didn't want to kill any more. He didn't want to be responsible for anyone else's safety, or their death if he failed. He didn't want to bury one more body. He just wanted to... he just wanted to lie down and, and ... stop. Not think. Just rest.

He sank to the ground and wrapped his arms around his knees and dropped his head to his arms and he cried. He cried for the children whose bodies had lain in the square in the centre of their village where they should have been safe, and he cried for the men who had followed him into battle believing in his strength to keep them safe. And he cried for himself, because he was lost, and because if he'd had enough of fighting and killing, then he'd had enough of the Musketeers, and he wasn't sure who Porthos was if he wasn't a Musketeer.

He didn't know how long he sat there, but eventually he realised he'd run out of tears. It took an enormous effort to lift his head, because he knew once he did, he would have to do something. Move; stand; walk somewhere – and he didn't know where or what to do.

But eventually he opened his eyes and looked around, because he was cold and if nothing else he could surely find somewhere warmer to sit than this bare hillside...

What bare hillside _was_ this? He lurched to his feet suddenly, turning on stiff legs and squinting into the unfamiliar landscape. Where the hell was he? The moon was out from the clouds now and the ground around him was backlit with a silvery, cold light that cast teasing shadows all around him. Some looked like bodies, others like men he knew, friends and enemies. One had d'Artagnan's shape but then it morphed into a tree trunk, and he wondered if he was going mad.

Slowly things came back to him. He had been walking, hadn't he? He noticed the moonlight on the hillside above the camp, how peaceful it looked, and been drawn towards it... Had he crossed the river? He looked at his boots and saw they were black with dew but not soaked. So he was still on French soil.

He sank back to the ground and dug his fingers into the dirt. France... where could he go? He could get work, he knew that: there was always work for someone of his stature. He'd always fancied being a farrier or blacksmith. Maybe he could find a village where he could learn the trade.

He sat for a while, trying to picture that life. He got glimpses of it: there would be a barmaid with dimples with whom he would flirt, and maybe an older woman whose husband had died in the war who would rent him a room. He would settle the odd bar brawl and help farmers with the harvest; learn to deliver a calf by pulling on its hooves, as d'Artagnan had described more than once after too many cups of wine when he was missing his old life in Gascony.

d'Artagnan.

He hadn't said goodbye.

He'd left him sleeping. Thinking everything was alright. He could see it in his face when he'd told the lad to move his stuff back in; he'd looked as happy as the day he'd married Constance. He hadn't needed apologies or explanations for the awful things Porthos had said to him when he was angry at surviving the fiasco in the ravine. He was loyal, that boy. No, not a boy any more. Only God knew what he'd been through at the hands of the Spanish but no one could call him a boy anymore, no matter how he doubted himself. He'd had so many knockbacks but he'd somehow kept going and Porthos thought he would be alright now. He and Athos were still wary around each other, but only because they were both hurting, and didn't want to hurt each other more. They just needed time and they would have plenty of that if Porthos wasn't there. They would have to talk to each other then, sort out their problems together. d'Artagnan would have to ask Athos to look out for him the way Porthos had promised to. That ridiculous promise to kill him rather than let him be captured again – how crazy was that! He'd have to ask someone else now, not him. Not fair to ask him anymore.

Porthos realised, distantly, that he was crying again. He wasn't sure why, this time, only it had to do with d'Artagnan and not saying goodbye, and Athos having to look out for d'Artagnan on the battlefield. Not that the lad needed protecting any more, but if he was injured, Athos would have to be there for him, not Porthos. But Athos had other responsibilities, and enough to cope with. Too much. Too many men to worry over. Who would help him plan now? Who would listen to him sighing and swearing to himself as he wrote the letters of condolence to the families?

Had Athos written to the families of the six already? Porthos should have helped him. He could have given the wives and mothers words of comfort about how they'd died bravely. He couldn't do that if he was working in a smithy in some village in the Alps.

Athos. He'd need someone to talk to and Porthos wasn't sure d'Artagnan was ready to help anyone else just yet. But there was Fouchard... Porthos had grown very fond of the eager, enthusiastic youngster. A little older than d'Artagnan, in fact, but they were years apart in maturity. Although Fouchard had proven himself over and over, recently. He would help Athos get used to Porthos' absence, wouldn't he?

He'd been going to teach the young musketeer to use the baton to fight with. Useful tool, a nice long piece of wood. He'd planned to teach them all ...

He sighed, and looked eastwards. There was a hint of light there, and he was cold.

He heaved himself to his feet, sniffed the air, turned his back on the moon, and started plodding back towards camp without conscious decision; no thought other than that if he hurried, he could be back before d'Artagnan noticed he'd been gone. Because, God knew, the lad had enough on his shoulders already without worrying about Porthos.

* * *

Behind him, the shadows shifted as clouds drifted across the face of the moon, and eventually one shape detached itself from the tree-trunk behind which it had waited for so long.

When he had finally caught up with Porthos, d'Artagnan had been so relieved that he'd started across the clearing towards him before his senses caught up with him enough to realise Porthos was crying. At first he wasn't sure: it wasn't a sob, more of a raw breath, a hitched cough; but then he saw the big man's shoulders shaking and he knew that he was watching Porthos slowly fall apart.

It had taken every ounce of his self-control not to go to him, but he knew, without doubt, that it would be the wrong thing to do. He didn't know why Porthos had come all the way out here – they were miles from camp now – but it was entirely possible that the only reason he was crying now was because he thought himself alone. Whatever was eating at him – and d'Artagnan had a pretty good idea what it might be – Porthos hadn't felt able to express it back in camp. Maybe he just didn't want to burden Athos, who already had the lives of the regiment in his hands. Porthos was so good at protecting those around him; he would be trying just to cope on his own, like he always did.

But d'Artagnan knew from his own bitter experience that you couldn't just go on absorbing everything – all the hurt, the pain, the fear, the anguish of war – without it eventually leaking out, or spilling, or erupting out, in some way. And if Porthos had picked this way – privately, miles from camp, with no one to witness his disintegration, then d'Artagnan was not going to interfere. He would just wait, and make sure Porthos was safe, and be ready to pick up the pieces if need be, the way Porthos had done for him countless times during the last few years.

d'Artagnan had almost fallen asleep leaning against the tree trunk, but jerked into instant wakefulness when Porthos finally stood. He was acutely aware that both of them were vulnerable if discovered so far from the camp, and he wasn't sure what he would do if Porthos set off in the wrong direction. He was incredibly relieved therefore when Porthos turned, sniffed the air like a black bear, and heading towards the woods again.

He was slightly less happy to realise that Porthos was going to pass within a few feet of him and that it was too late to move without giving himself away. All he could do was close his eyes, hold his breath and lean harder into the shadows.

Fortunately Porthos' thoughts were clearly far away and he passed d'Artagnan without pausing. Breathing a sigh of relief d'Artagnan waited until the sound of Porthos' steps had almost faded before moving stiffly off to follow him silently back to camp.

It was only when they were within sight of the camp fires that d'Artagnan realised Porthos was bound to notice his own absence when he got to their tent. Biting his lip – he really didn't want Porthos to realise he'd been under scrutiny all this time – he contemplated leaving his weapons by the fire and pretending he'd just been to the latrine trench, but was saved, ironically, by the alertness of a perimeter patrol that spotted Porthos as he headed down the last slope back into camp.

d'Artagnan dropped to the ground the second he heard their challenge to Porthos, then wriggled cautiously away as fast as he could without being heard. As soon as he was a safe distance away he circled around the back of the tents and emerged as if from his own tent in time to hear Porthos blustering about losing his dagger and coming out to look for it. Dropping his own weapons hastily just inside their tent, d'Artagnan jogged silently over towards the perimeter and then slowed to a casual walk, fiddling with the strings of his leathers as if he'd just been to relieve himself and calling out to Porthos: "Did you find it?"

Both guards turned as one, their hands close to their pistols until they recognized d'Artagnan. "Your dagger, did you find it?" he repeated, as he came over to the trio.

"Yes thanks," said Porthos, gathering his wits finally and producing the "missing" dagger to corroborate his reason for leaving camp.

"Good. I could do without helping you search in the middle of the night... What time is it?" he added to the guards as he turned, clearly waiting for Porthos to join him.

A guard he vaguely recognised, a man from Auvergne, informed him pompously that it was past 4 o'clock and hardly worth sleeping now. d'Artagnan laughed. "It's never too late for sleep, my friend," he said cheerfully, putting an arm around Porthos' shoulders and giving him an imperceptible nudge towards their tent.

Inside, Porthos sat heavily on the bed and looked quizzically at d'Artagnan who carefully avoided his gaze, busying himself with toeing his weapons closer to his bed and pulling his boots off. "I bloody hate peeing in the night now it's getting so cold at night," grumbled d'Artagnan half to himself as he wriggled under his blanket with relief. He really was chilled to the bone. He heard, rather than saw, Porthos shake himself and yank his own boots off before settling with a grunt. Finally relaxing for the first time in hours, d'Artagnan was asleep within minutes and, exhausted by the emotion of the past few days, Porthos finally followed suit.

* * *

If both men looked weary a couple of hours later at muster, Athos made no mention. In truth he was just relieved to see the two men standing together again, but he also had a lot on his mind. He'd been called to yet another early morning meeting with the Generals, led by the new arrival, General Faucille, who was clearly a man on a mission.

The extra surveys had been done and a new battle plan drawn up, which the General was planning to execute at the earliest opportunity. He doubled the number of patrols and ordered close scrutiny of the Spanish encampment, and everyone was kept busy during the day with the preparations for a major campaign.

d'Artagnan's life slowly returned to normal, if there was such a thing in war-time. Colombe seemed to be keeping a low profile after the fiasco of the surveys. Porthos had said nothing about his night-time wandering, but after a couple of sharp looks at d'Artagnan as he yawned over his porridge the next morning he seemed to have accepted the notion that d'Artagnan had simply risen to relieve himself and overheard Porthos talking to the guards about losing his dagger. Neither of them had talked about the disaster in the ravine, or the massacre at Aribe, and d'Artagnan knew that Porthos was still subdued and struggling to hold himself together. But he also knew that Porthos would be alright, and was all the better for knowing d'Artagnan would be, too.

And he would, he realised suddenly. There was a time, after he'd returned from Paris, when conversations had stopped if he joined the group around the campfire, then restarted with a different feel – more cautious, as if the musketeers were wary of upsetting him. And after his punishment for hitting Colombe (he still struggled to say the word 'flogging', even in his own head), he'd known everyone was watching him all the time, waiting to see if he fell apart or lost his cool. It had been comforting, in a way, knowing that they were looking out for him, but it had also been unnerving. But after the losses in the ravine near Orbara the regiment's attention had moved on and it was a huge relief to be able to think of himself as 'just' a Musketeer, again.

He still felt wary around Athos, who seemed more distant than ever as he spent hour after hour in planning sessions with the other Captains, with the Generals, or on his own pouring over maps and writing endless reports. Before, d'Artagnan would have burst in and teased him into taking time out, or dragged him out forcibly if he blustered, but their easy companionship seemed a thing of the past in the formality of the larger army setting. He was desperate to find out what Athos made of the situation with Colombe, now that he'd observed some of it for himself in the survey debriefing, but there was an invisible line between him and Athos which he didn't know how to cross anymore.

For a while he resigned himself to accepting the new situation and his position as just another of Athos' men, and after being the centre of attention for so long he'd almost welcomed this new anonymity.

It was a shame, therefore, that the problem with Colombe suddenly came to the fore again. This time however, he was not the focus. Colombe was.

* * *

 _Author's note: Porthos tells Eloise in Season 3.7, Fool's Gold: "I know a lot about fear. You asked me if I've ever been scared on the battlefield. Well I was. When I was on the front line at one point, we were losing more men than we could bury. Seeing things like that, it does something to your mind. The fear takes over. One night it got so bad I left. I got five miles away then I realised what I was doing and I came back. No one ever knew." "Why did you come back?" "My men. My friends. However bad it gets, you keep going for them... fear has no power over you." I've often wondered about what happened to drive him to that point, so this is my attempt to understand what drove him to that point, and what brought him back. I hope I did him justice._


	15. Lines Get Blurred

_Warning, there's a patch of bad language here. These army boys, what are they like!_

 **Chapter 13: Lines Get Blurred**

d'Artagnan was walking back from the river after a long day patrolling the hills between the French and Spanish camps. He'd been paired with one of his least favourite Musketeers, a man who never washed and seemed to possess only one shirt, so the stench of sweat surrounded him everywhere he went, and d'Artagnan began to fear the Spanish might track him by scent alone. He'd been very glad to get back undetected, and had made his report to Athos before escaping with relief down to the river for a rapid wash in the icy water.

It was early evening and already nearly dark, so d'Artagnan almost missed the group of men standing silently behind a group of tents in the Picardy area of camp. Or rather, not standing: tussling, but in eerie silence. It was the tiniest of sounds that caught his attention and he turned, at first seeing nothing untoward but then picking out a flash of steel at the neck of a man in the centre of the group. A hooded man.

He hesitated. In the gloom he couldn't make out any of the features of those involved but he could pick up the waves of tension radiating from all of them. There were six men there, he could see now, trying to drag the struggling, hooded man towards the edge of camp.

Sighing deeply, d'Artagnan took a step closer. Much as he was enjoying the anonymity of the last few days, he couldn't ignore it when something so apparently sinister was in progress.

"Walk on, Gascon," called a voice quietly.

d'Artagnan stopped, biting his lip. Behind him the muted sounds of camp drifted to his ears – teasing from the Musketeer campfire, someone singing quietly as they scraped mud from a girth, someone else telling a joke on their way back from eating. He wished he hadn't chosen this path through the camp, hadn't heard anything, hadn't stopped to investigate. He heartily wished he had someone with him. He took another step forward.

"I said, walk on!"

d'Artagnan tried to keep his outline relaxed as he took another step, holding his hands out by his sides. "Just taking a short cut, that's all."

He was close enough now to make out some of those involved. Pelletier, Bernard, Chenôve, and Sauvilleau he thought, all from the Picardy regiment, and two he didn't know. Those he recognised were some of the most experienced men in the regiment, veterans of several earlier campaigns. As he approached Pelletier, a tall, angular man with grizzled hair, stepped forward to block his view of the frozen tableau.

"Piss off out of here. It doesn't concern you."

"Dragging a hooded man against his will should concern anyone, my friend, so why don't you tell me –"

He didn't have time to finish before Chenôve launched himself towards him, unleashing a round-house blow that would have felled him if he hadn't ducked. Next second Chenôve's body barrelled into him, but d'Artagnan dropped his shoulder and with a quick twist sent his attacker flying to land untidily on his back. There was a muted shout of protest before two more piled in. There followed a silent scuffle before it belatedly occurred to d'Artagnan that, while they clearly wanted to keep quiet, he didn't have to. But as he opened his mouth to yell for help a quick fist caught him full in the face sending him staggering sideways, and before he could recover he was caught from behind by Chenôve who'd recovered quickly. Arms pinned in a steely grip, his next breath whooshed out of him as he was punched hard in the stomach and another fist landed high on his left cheek, opening the still tender scar tissue near his eye from when he was interrogated by the Spanish.

Blood welled instantly and there was a muffled exclamation from Pelletier who'd thrown that punch. d'Artagnan took advantage by leaning his full weight backwards into Chenôve and lifting both feet off the ground to kick Pelletier full in the groin. He collapsed instantly to the ground, coughing and gagging, at which point one of those who'd held back called out sharply: "Enough! He's not involved in this, we don't need to hurt him."

"He involved himself when he stuck his bloody nose into our business, Santerre!" Sauvilleau replied, turning angrily on the man who'd spoken up, but Chenôve released d'Artagnan and stood back, folding his arms across his sturdy chest. d'Artagnan stooped warily to offer a hand to Pelletier, who hesitated, then allowed d'Artagnan to help him to his feet.

"Actually it's as much his business as anyone's," answered Santerre. He beckoned d'Artagnan forward.

Touching his eye gingerly and scowling at the blood on his fingertips, d'Artagnan moved cautiously closer, wondering if he was being stupid. "Who is this? What are you doing with him?"

"He's bullied us for too long and we've had enough."

"Don't tell him!" Several of the men rounded on Santerre and one shoved him roughly. Santerre staggered, got his balance and squared up, but before it could all kick off again light dawned for d'Artagnan and he gasped in shock. "Wait! Is this Colombe?" Given the resounding silence that followed, d'Artagnan knew he was right. "What in God's name are you doing?"

Feet shuffled, then Bernard spoke. "We've just had enough of being pushed around and treated like a piece of ... of dog-shit! You know what he's like. The bastard uses us as his personal slaves; he bloody well humiliates us!"

Sauvilleau joined in. "He puts us in danger with his bloody hopeless leadership. He favours a few and gives punishments out to anyone he feels threatened by. He doesn't fight alongside us like your officers do; in fact he's pretty useless with the blade, aren't you, _connard_?"

The others were nodding as Bernard added: "We just wanted to teach him a lesson. Want him to know what it's like to feel powerless, and – afraid."

The hairs on the back of d'Artagnan's neck were standing up as he realised just how desperate Colombe's men were. He wasn't at all sure he could talk them down; just being a witness to whatever they were planning put him in danger too. He swallowed, and tried to reason with them. "Look, I know how he is. But however unfair it is, he's an officer and you can't – you can't _manhandle_ him like this! You saw what happened to me when I landed a punch on him. Do you really want to face that, or worse?"

"We weren't planning on getting caught." Chenôve had circled around behind d'Artagnan and he could feel the man's breath on his neck as he spoke softly into d'Artagnan's ear. "Don't tell me you wouldn't love to get your revenge on him."

d'Artagnan gave a wry laugh. He'd found himself day dreaming about pushing Colombe down a cliff, the last time he'd had to run a pointless errand for the man, but he didn't think admitting this would help the current situation at all. "Revenge is not the way to deal with something like this. Why don't you –"

He stopped in shock as a blade was thrust into his hand.

"Be my guest."

" _Con!"_ d'Artagnan flung the blade to the ground as if it was fire-hot. "Are you mad?" In his shock he abandoned all thought of persuasion and strode towards the two holding Colombe, knocking the blade away from the man's neck. Instantly everyone surrounded him again but he held his hands out as if pushing them away and glared at them all.

"We don't want to kill him – " Santerre started.

"Speak for yourself!"

Santerre scowled at Chenôve. "We _don't_! Just to scare him enough so he'll back off before he gets us all killed."

d'Artagnan stared at them, realising slowly that they hadn't had a plan; it sounded like they hadn't discussed what they were going to do. He felt a flicker of hope. If this wasn't a mutiny, just a spur-of-the-moment eruption, then maybe he could turn it around somehow before they all landed themselves in deep trouble.

He spoke with all the authority he could muster.

"Right, listen to me. This has gone far enough. Any further and your regiment is going to lose a lot of good men. So now you are going to go back to your beds and keep quiet." As he spoke he started to pull the hood off his head.

Immediately Bernard grabbed at his arm to stop him. "What are you doing? He'll identify us and we'll all bloody hang!"

d'Artagnan shook his hand off. "He knows your voices, he knows exactly who you are already, you idiot! But he's not going to say anything, are you, Colombe?"

He yanked the hood off Colombe, grabbing him by the collar and pulling him close as the man cringed. In the faint moonlight, d'Artagnan could see fear and panic in Colombe's expression. Encouraged, he spoke resolutely into the man's ear, his voice quietly hypnotic in the dark. "You would be finished as an officer if you name them. They would be punished, and might even hang. But _you_ would never be safe, would you? You would have to watch your back all the time, knowing the next battle you're in, there would be an 'accident', a stray musket ball, and you'd be dead. And you don't want to die, do you?" He'd lowered his voice now, speaking calmly, fixing Colombe with a level gaze. Colombe was shaking and almost sobbing, but he was listening.

Behind Colombe, d'Artagnan could see his attackers listening too, some muttering but others looking worried, as if they were only just realising the implications of what they were going. Santerre stepped closer. "What are you suggesting - we all just forget this ever happened? Nothing will change. He'd be worse than after this. Officers have all the power – you know that better than anyone – and our lives wouldn't be worth living!"

d'Artagnan didn't have an immediate answer, since he was making this up as he went along, but he knew Santerre was right. "No, something has to change. _You_ have to change, Colombe!" He shook him slightly to emphasise his words, then remembered how risky it was to be threatening an officer, and relaxed his grip a little. He would be so much trouble if this went wrong! For a moment he hesitated, but he knew things had gone too far for him to turn his back now.

He pulled his main gauche, ignoring the way Colombe flinched as if frightened d'Artagnan was planning to stab him, and reached around to slice the ropes binding the lieutenant's arms behind his back. Sheathing his blade, he quickly took Colombe by the arm in case the man tried to bolt.

"We're going to get you some help. But you have to promise to tell the _truth_. No trying to name me as one of your attackers, or make this into something sinister." He softened his voice again. "Look, I think you've been floundering ever since you got here, haven't you? So I'm offering you some help, but you have to be honest about what's been going on. Agreed?"

Colombe nodded, shakily. d'Artagnan couldn't quite believe it would be that easy, any more than he could believe that he was offering to help the scheming bastard, but he couldn't see any other way out of this mess.

Bernard looked worried. "If he tells the truth, he'll name us and then..."

"No, he won't. Colombe couldn't possibly see or hear anything with that hood on, could you? And it's far too dark over here for me to see any of your faces. You all ran off as soon as I turned up, didn't you?"

He glared at Colombe, who was nodding vigorously, then looked at the others. "Well, go on – disappear!"

They started to melt away but Santerre hesitated and came back. "Thanks, d'Artagnan. Look, if you get into trouble over this – "

"I'll be fine."

"Even so. If it goes wrong, I'll speak up. I won't let you suffer for our sakes."

d'Artagnan nodded, feeling humbled, as Santerre headed off again, then turned to Colombe, helping him ease the gag from his mouth. "That's the kind of loyalty _you_ should be inspiring, Lieutenant. Last chance to change your mind. Accept my terms, and my help, or I disappear and nothing changes. You'll find we all have excellent alibis from our friends, if you try to point the finger at us."

Colombe shook his head and spoke shakily for the first time. "No. I don't want... I've had enough." His eyes filled with tears and he stopped speaking.

d'Artagnan felt almost sorry for him. Almost. "Come on then."

"Where are we going? What are you going to do?"

"Talk to Athos."

"No!" Colombe dug his heels in, looking panic-stricken. "I don't want the officers to know...!"

d'Artagnan looked at him with something akin to compassion. "We can't pretend this didn't happen. Athos will help where I can't. It's the best way. Come on."

After a moment, Colombe nodded, and followed d'Artagnan reluctantly towards the Musketeers' camp.

At Athos' tent, d'Artagnan stopped when he heard voices. Damn. He had hoped Athos would be alone, but there were still plenty of musketeers up around the campfire and several were looking his way curiously so he couldn't back away now. He sighed, and knocked on the tent pole. "Sir? Do you have a moment?"

"Come in, d'Artagnan. We were just talking about you" – Athos stopped as d'Artagnan ushered Colombe in ahead of him. In the candlelight Colombe looked dishevelled and filthy from the hood, and was already in tears at the prospect of revealing his shortcomings to Athos.

d'Artagnan meanwhile was staring in shock at the second man in the tent, who was none other than the new General, Faucille.

"What's going on?" Athos looked from one to the other, waiting for an explanation. d'Artagnan shut his eyes for a moment. It was one thing talking to Athos, no matter the distance between them recently, and quite another to criticise a senior officer in front of the General – any General. He swallowed, quite sure this was not going to end well for him but unable to think of a way out now.

"Any time tonight would be good, d'Artagnan."

Deep breath. "I... I was..." He floundered. Where to start? Athos already had one eyebrow up. He puffed out his cheeks then plunged right to the heart of it. "Lieutenant Colombe needs some help. Sir."

Unsurprisingly both eyebrows were now up and rapidly disappearing into Athos' overlong hair. He hurried on. "He's been in a – a situation, tonight. And, um ..." He glanced sideways at Colombe, seeing nothing but despair on the man's face. Feeling slightly reassured, he carried on. "He's been struggling with control over his men. Acceptance, maybe." Another glance: still no help from Colombe. "I think maybe he didn't have much experience of command before joining the Picardies. Is that right?" Desperate now to bring Colombe into the conversation so it wasn't just him making accusations. To his relief, Colombe nodded slightly.

"What happened tonight?" Athos moved to the chest where he kept cups and alcohol, and pulled out a bottle of wine, pouring efficiently and offering it first to the General, then the others. d'Artagnan shook his head but Colombe took the proffered cup and knocked it back greedily. Athos leaned against the map table, folded his arms and waited.

"I was jumped, by some of my men." Colombe's voice was shaky but his words were clear enough. "They – I'm not sure what they were going to do. They hooded me, and gagged me..."

d'Artagnan looked anxiously at the General, wondering how he would react to the news of such an break-down in discipline in the camp, but the man was as impassive as Athos.

"... d'Artagnan stopped them and they ran off. He said... he said I needed help. And I do!" This last was almost a wail. "I've made such a mess of it! I'm... I just wanted to... oh God!" He flung his hands up in wordless despair and looked around vaguely, then stumbled to the chair by the map table and collapsed into it.

Athos' keen gaze swept over him to d'Artagnan, who was uncomfortably aware of his own untidy appearance. He'd tried to wipe the blood from his eye and lip before entering the tent, but his cheek was throbbing where he'd been hit and he had a feeling he might look a bit battered.

"Did you see who was involved?" Athos' question was directed back at Colombe, but he flicked a look at d'Artagnan that showed he suspected there was more to it than Colombe had revealed.

"They hooded me. I can't be sure."

Athos was looking at d'Artagnan again.

"Sir, I don't think..." He had to tread carefully, especially with the General listening. "I think a lot's been going on in the Picardy regiment that perhaps went unnoticed. I think the men haven't felt supported by their officers" – Athos was giving him a warning look now and he moved on, quickly – "and I don't think it would help the regiment if we draw attention to the... um... disarray. Discontent."

"What do you suggest, then?" The General rose from his chair and came forward to stand by Athos, who glanced quickly at him then back to d'Artagnan, a fleeting look of concern crossing his features.

d'Artagnan didn't blame him. He wasn't at all sure he fancied answering the General's question. Looking at him though, he fancied he saw a tiny twitch in the corner of Faucille's mouth. Was he – amused? He swallowed, then exhaled in relief as Athos came to his rescue.

"Sir, may I suggest..."

"No, I'm interested to hear d'Artagnan's thoughts."

Oh. d'Artagnan cleared a suddenly dry throat, casting around frantically for an answer. He didn't think there was one. The poor man would have lost what little respect he could command amongst the Picardies after this. Although... that gave him an idea. "Could we take the lieutenant out of his regiment for a bit? Put him in another regiment – another _army_ regiment, I mean." Adding this hastily, suddenly realising that if the General did take his suggestion, the Musketeers wouldn't thank him for lumbering them with the bloody man. His attention was caught by the General's mouth as, once again, he could have sworn the man was suppressing a smile, even as he nodded for d'Artagnan to continue.

"Maybe we could bring a couple of lieutenants from other regiments on secondment to help sort Picardy out. They just need ... some order. Officers they can look up to." It was so hard to explain the problems without actually criticising the Picardy officers. It wasn't just Colombe that was the problem; Captain Allard was just as lazy and useless. Athos surely knew this and he willed the General to allow Athos to speak instead of letting him blunder on, teetering between truth and insolence.

It seemed the General had the same thought, although no doubt for different reasons. "Athos, you know the regiment and its officers better than I. What say you?"

"The Picardy regiment has been weak, in our joint operations, and several of us have had concerns about their Captain. However until now there has been no ... encouragement ... to voice those concerns."

Clever. He'd backed d'Artagnan, made it obvious it was not just a question of the Musketeers having a grudge against him, explained why they hadn't been able to do anything previously, and tacitly invited the General to step up, all in two sentences.

The General clapped Athos on the back. "See to it. Our other discussion can wait. Come to my tent at ten tomorrow. You can brief me on what you've decided about the Picardy regiment. If Captain Allard gives you any grief – or whichever Captain you dump Colombe on, for that matter – tell them you have my full support for your decisions. Good night to you all." And with that he was gone.

d'Artagnan let out a long breath and Athos regarded him with some amusement.

"You've had a busy night, it appears. Go and see Etienne and get cleaned up. And have someone send Porthos over here."

d'Artagnan didn't hang about. He couldn't help thinking he'd been lucky not to have ended up in deep trouble himself, but it seemed Colombe had been so shaken by the experience that he'd completely capitulated.

* * *

It was after midnight before Porthos came quietly into their tent. d'Artagnan had endured a lecture from Etienne, after declining to explain how he'd got his face bashed up, and then been unable to fall asleep, tired though he was, because of the thoughts buzzing around his head as he wondered what Athos made of it all, whether the General really was as laid-back as he'd appeared on hearing the news that a gang of men had nearly lynched an officer tonight, and whether Colombe would think better of letting d'Artagnan take control.

Porthos sank to his bed with a weary grunt and started pulling his boots off. "You awake?" he asked, loudly. d'Artagnan stifled a grin as he sat up. Even if he had been sleeping, Porthos' enquiry would have woken him. Clearly he wanted to talk.

"So Athos tells me you've been playing God with Colombe."

This was not quite how d'Artagnan would have put it. "I didn't really have much choice, to be honest, not once I realised what was happening."

"Why didn't you just walk away?" Porthos' voice was gruff and his face gave nothing away.

"They were crossing a line. I couldn't ignore it."

"He had you _flogged_." Porthos hissed the words with startling intensity.

There was a small silence. d'Artagnan fingered a hole in his blanket and tried to marshall his thoughts. "I didn't know it was Colombe until it was too late, and then..." He stopped, trying to remember. He could have walked away at any point. Why hadn't he? He stared at his hands, absently running a thumb over the scarred finger tips from where he'd tried to scrabble his way out of the oubliette the Spanish had dumped him in when he was captured, and spoke slowly. "I suppose... I suppose I've had enough of violence –"

Porthos made a startled noise.

"Not fighting, not honest fighting. I mean, I don't relish it, any more than any of us do, but it's what we do. What I'm good at." He looked up and saw Porthos watching him intently. "I've had enough of ... of cruelty." He stopped, thinking about the word and realising it felt right. The musketeers were all about valour, and honest endeavour, and loyalty, and honour. It was so easy to lose sight of those values amidst the filthy grasp of war, but they mattered. And there'd been none of that in the menacing tableau he'd interrupted that night, but he knew the men, some of them anyway, and they were better than that. "They were good men, Porthos, but they'd just had enough and no one was looking out for them in their regiment. If they had gone through with it, they would have been hung out to dry. And even if they weren't caught, it was just _wrong._ "

"Mmm." Porthos pulled his shirt over his head and used it to mop under his armpits, then rummaged amongst his kit for a clean one.

d'Artagnan sighed, wondering if he'd made a fool of himself. What had Athos said to Porthos? Were they angry with him for interfering? He watched Porthos pull the shirt over his head. That seemed to be the end of the conversation, so he flopped back on his bed and yanked his blanket up, feeling suddenly drained. His stomach felt tender where Pelletier had thumped him and the cut near his eye was throbbing. He scowled, remembering the candle on the table between their beds was still lit, and as he sat up again to blow it out he realised Porthos was still sitting on the side of his bed looking at him.

"Don't ever change, d'Artagnan."

"Mm?" What did he mean?

"That fire you have blazin' in your gut. That passion for doin' things right, lad - I hope you never lose that." Porthos looked so serious in the flickering light that d'Artagnan felt himself colour up. It felt like a long time since anyone had complimented him like that. Before he could think what to say Porthos had grunted and rolled himself in his blanket, seemingly not needing a response.

After a moment d'Artagnan blew out the candle and tried to settle, but the twinge in his stomach as he turned on his side reminded him. "What happened with Colombe?"

A low chuckle from the other bed suggested Porthos had been waiting for him to ask.

"Spit it out so I can get back to sleep, Porthos! Where did he end up?"

"We took 'im over to the Limoge camp. They weren't too 'appy to see 'im but Athos can be very persuasive. 'e's agreed to go in as a sub-lieutenant so they can keep 'im in line and put 'im to work. Reckon it'll be the makin' of 'im, provided 'e keeps 'is mouth shut."

"Good." d'Artagnan settled back and shut his eyes.

"What 'appened to your face then?"

"Oh... Everyone was a bit twitchy. Not sure they were happy I was interfering, at first."

"You okay?"

d'Artagnan opened his eyes to find Porthos peering at him in the dim light, and found a feeling of warmth creeping through him at the big man's concern. He smiled. "I'm fine. But tired. So stop talking and let's get some sleep! I'm on duty in a couple of hours."

"Oh, nearly forgot. Athos swopped you onto the mornin' patrol. Said you looked like you needed a good night's sleep."

"Well, after last night that's true," d'Artagnan replied without thinking, then heard Porthos sit suddenly upright.

"What d'you mean, after last night?" Porthos demanded.

"Well you, messing about looking for your dagger, obviously! Now for goodness' sake shut up and let me sleep." d'Artagnan held his breath, sensing Porthos staring at him suspiciously, but then he grunted and lay back down and d'Artagnan let out a silent breath of relief. There was no way he wanted Porthos to know he'd followed him on his trek out of camp. It was enough that Porthos had turned back, and was talking again. d'Artagnan understood only too well the depths of despair war could bring you to, and the only way he knew how to get through it was by being around people who understood, without having to talk about it. That was fine with him.

Porthos lay and listened as d'Artagnan's breathing settled into a gentle rhythmic snoring. He wondered about the night before, but d'Artagnan had given no signs of suspecting why Porthos had really been out of camp. He sighed, and allowed his body to relax as he reflected on the comfort he gained from knowing the Gascon was back to his normal impulsive self again.

* * *

 _Author's Note: I thought long and hard about Colombe's fate and I hope those of you who indulged in fantasies about his death are not too disappointed. You have taken to hating him with gusto, which I thoroughly enjoyed, but I couldn't see d'Artagnan taking vengeance on him in spite of everything he's done. After all most of it was just words, and arrogance, and Colombe could not have predicted d'Artagnan's explosive reaction or its aftermath. I considered a convenient "friendly fire" accident, but felt it would be too neat and contrived. So in the end I settled for something a bit messy and perhaps less satisfying for you as reader, but one I felt comfortable with. I hope I gave d'Artagnan a plausible dilemma, but I don't see him as someone who bears grudges. He is impulsively honest and I think honour and integrity are more important to him - to all of them - than anything else (except love, of course). As always, I welcome your thoughts!_

 _I didn't translate the French swear words as they look worse to me in English! But I felt the earthy army language helped to establish the raw menace of the scene._

 _Final note: Helensg reminded me right at the start of this story that Elodie's husband was in the Picardy regiment, and asked if we would meet him. To be honest I thought I'd invented the regiment by picking a name randomly from the map, but clearly the fact was buried somewhere in my subconscious mind, like many things these days! I'd already drafted this part of the story but realised that amongst the men I'd described one stood out as a good man, so I decided Santerre was worthy of the lovely Elodie, and we will meet him again briefly in the next chapter._

 _Ooh, one more thing. I like it when people warn me when a story is coming to a close. This one is, in that there's only one more story arc before the end, but in my usual style it's not brief. Another seven chapters, in fact, and I won't tell you how many more words in case I put you off staying with me! We are back in action next time (and nearly to the bit you've been waiting for, H!) and it will be up at the weekend. Thanks so much for reading!_


	16. Warriors I

_Thanks for all your warm words recently, and I'm sorry I haven't managed to reply to some of you. FF will only let me into the last page of reviews at the moment and frequently tells me there's no server so I can't post an answer. But I've read and appreciated them all hugely; there's a buzz in posting a chapter and waiting to see whether it has worked for the reader that is addictive! To those who want to know what Athos and the General were talking about, remind me in a couple of chapters - I had forgotten to write that bit in! First though, they have a small battle to get through..._

 **Chapter 14: Warriors 1**

 _Candanchú_

d'Artagnan broke his fast with Guérin the next morning. After demolishing their porridge with more gusto than it deserved, they sat by the campfire, both sipping at cups of steaming spiced tea as they waited for the sun to come up and start warming their bones.

"I'm glad you're back," said Guérin suddenly, unwittingly echoing Porthos' thoughts of the night before.

d'Artagnan looked at him. "Back from where?"

"From wherever you've been, since you were captured."

"Paris?"

"No, you daft bugger! You've been... distant. Struggling. It's been hard to watch. But the last few days, you've seemed more like your old self. The way you dealt with the cleanup in Aribe, for example."

d'Artagnan grimaced at the memory. "I won't ever forget that." There was a silence before he added: "It reminded me of why we're here. What we're fighting for. I don't want to see any more of our villages silent like that, or the children... I grew up near a village not much bigger than that and it was just wrong. It should be bursting with life, you know? Hope, and happiness, and... and _love_. I want to see that again!"

"There you go! There's that Gascon passion I'm talking about!"

d'Artagnan huffed, feeling embarrassed. "I don't know – it was just good to feel useful again."

Guérin nodded, then cast him a sly look. "I reckon sorting Colombe out has a lot to do with it too."

"I had nothing to do with" –

"Oh, please! We all know you were involved somehow."

d'Artagnan scowled but didn't deny it, instead staring into the flames and prodding a log further into the centre with a toe.

"Have I said the wrong thing?" Guérin sounded anxious now.

"No – sorry. I was just thinking about what you said. You're right. It's – I've felt so weak" –

"You're not weak! Anything but weak, everything you've gone through in the last few months!" protested Guérin.

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "Maybe that _explains_ it but it doesn't change how I've felt. It's been almost the worst part. Trying to feel normal again but feeling like everyone was looking at me, or looking out for me, all the time. I couldn't _do_ anything to help – Athos was keeping me safe so I just felt useless..."

He stopped as Guérin snorted.

"No, really: keeping me back from the action, giving me easy missions..."

"Flogging you." Guérin's bluntness took d'Artagnan by surprise.

He squinted sideways at his friend. He sounded – was he _angry_ with Athos _?_

"He had no choice – I gave him no choice."

"Doesn't make it right."

Yes, definitely angry. d'Artagnan felt a sudden glow as he realised the strength of the bond Guérin had developed for him. "My friend, we've discussed this" –

"No: _I_ have. _You_ haven't. Not with me, and not with anyone as far as I can tell."

"There is nothing to discuss." Ignoring Guérin's impatient 'tsk', he repeated firmly. "I gave him no choice. I broke the rules, and didn't explain why; his hands were tied. I've apologised to him for putting him in that position and it's all dealt with" –

"Has he apologised to you?"

The question stopped d'Artagnan in his tracks for a moment, then he rallied. "No, of course not! He has nothing to apologise for!"

"Are you sure about that? I don't mean for your sake – I mean for his. Any fool can see how close you three were and now you're all tiptoeing around each other. You need to sort it out" –

"It _is_ sorted!"

"Maybe for you, but what about Athos? Maybe he _needs_ to apologise to you, and maybe you should give him the chance!"

"I – what?" d'Artagnan was floundering. "If he wants to say something he's had plenty of opportunities..."

"What if he's worried about bringing it up? You won't talk about anything to do with your captivity, so unless you give him a hint that you're okay with talking about the flogging, _he's_ not going to broach it, is he?"

d'Artagnan was stunned, both because he hadn't thought of it from Athos' point of view, and by the fact that Guérin was brave enough to voice it. There was a long silence in which he could sense Guérin sneaking sideways glances at him. Eventually he said, rather weakly: "You might be right. But he's got so much to worry about and I didn't want him to think it was still bothering me. If I mention it –"

"You've got to. He's not going to, for fear of upsetting you."

"Yes but there's never a good time. He's always busy" –

"How about now? I've got time before muster."

Both men jumped at the sound of Athos' voice coming from right behind them.

" _Merde_! I mean, sorry Captain, we didn't hear you..." Guérin spluttered, as both men scrambled to their feet.

"Clearly." Athos looked amused at their consternation as they both tried to remember what they'd said and how much he might have overheard. To his credit, d'Artagnan was bold enough to ask.

"Enough to know that you and I need to have a talk. Now."

Casting him a look that struggled to mix " _This is all your fault_ " with " _Help!"_ d'Artagnan handed his empty cup to Guérin and meekly followed Athos towards his tent.

Before they got there, however, there was a shout from the gate as a pair of scouts raced through, heading for the centre of camp. Athos exchanged a glance with d'Artagnan as they stopped to watch. As the riders neared, they recognised both scouts as Musketeers, so Athos walked over to meet them as the pair slowed to a halt and leapt off their mounts, looking relieved to see him.

"Came across a Spanish unit – fifty or more, Sir," reported Marron, breathlessly. "We kept out of sight but overheard them talking about being on their way to join their Captain, someone called Ortega, at the Spanish hill fort at Candanchú, ready for a surprise attack on our camp. They've got men coming from all over apparently, and it sounds like the attack is imminent!" Marron was clearly trying to keep his voice calm but his words were tumbling over themselves with urgency.

"Right. Find General Faucille and report to him – I'll be right there. Leave your mounts, we'll see to them." The scouts nodded and raced off again as Athos yelled for Fouchard to take the horses. "d'Artagnan, alert the other regiments – take Guérin. I'll get Porthos and Jumot." He turned briskly towards his tent to collect his doublet and weapons, but stopped when he realised d'Artagnan hadn't moved. "d'Artagnan?"

d'Artagnan turned his head slowly and Athos saw he looked ashen, his fists tightening convulsively. Athos took a step back towards him. "What is it? d'Artagnan?" He reached out tentatively to grip the young Musketeer's shoulder and saw him startle, as if he'd been miles away.

"Sorry?"

"What's wrong?" Athos' thoughts were racing at the implications of the news from the scouts but d'Artagnan was plainly badly shaken by something that had been said. He thought back quickly. The hill camp at Candanchú was one they'd been scouting regularly for weeks so it couldn't be that, and the only other thing the scouts had mentioned was... "Ortega. Do you recognise that name?"

If anything, d'Artagnan looked even paler as Athos spoke the name. Still with his hand on the Gascon's shoulder, Athos was shocked to realise d'Artagnan was trembling slightly as he nodded, jerkily.

"Who is he?" Athos kept his voice low and matter-of-fact. Over d'Artagnan's shoulder he was aware of men emerging from their tents, alerted by the racing hoof-beats as the scouts had passed through, and he could see Guérin standing nearby, watching closely. With his free hand he beckoned to Guérin while stepping closer to d'Artagnan to ask, softly: "Was he involved in your capture?"

d'Artagnan could barely hear him past the blood roaring in his ears. He had put everything behind him and to hear that name, out of the blue, on a morning when he'd been feeling so good about everything, had shaken him to the core. Desperately trying to pull himself together he fastened his eyes on Athos and managed to nod again, more firmly.

"Right. _Merde_." Athos was completely thrown, not knowing what to do to help d'Artagnan.

It was with relief that he saw Guérin reach them. "Sir?"

"Rouse Porthos and Jumot, send them over to General Faucille's for an urgent briefing."

Guérin hesitated, looking at d'Artagnan.

Athos sighed. "He's had a shock but he'll be alright. If we're not back in time for muster, the daily orders are in my tent; can you see to it?"

Guérin nodded then shot off, looking worried.

"Right. With me, d'Artagnan." Athos led d'Artagnan firmly towards his tent and, once inside, poured him a cup of wine, steering him to the chair.

"Drink." He waited until d'Artagnan had taken a sip, then another. "I need to join the others. Will you be okay?"

He watched as d'Artagnan squared his shoulders before raising his head and nodding, his dark eyes full of pain.

"Is there anything useful you can tell me about this man? He's only a Captain and will be one of many, but anything you know might help." For a moment he thought d'Artagnan would not answer, but then he took a breath and said very quietly:

"He's – intelligent. And ruthless. Completely ruthless. His men... his lieutenant... he k-killed for p-p-pleasure."

So few words. So much pain behind them.

"And it was his men who captured you?" Athos checked again. At d'Artagnan's answering nod, he shut his eyes for a moment, wishing with a burning intensity that he had time to stop and listen to d'Artagnan, to reassure him that it would all be okay. But what he had to do first was get to the General and help plan their response to the news of the impending attack. Contenting himself with a pat on the shoulder, and hating it, he told him: "I'll be back. Wait here – don't worry about muster. Drink. Get yourself together. Agreed?"

It wasn't quite an order, to which d'Artagnan didn't quite manage a nod.

* * *

The three senior musketeer officers returned from the planning meeting still fleshing out their plans. General Faucille hadn't hesitated to order a pre-emptive attack, hoping the musketeer scouts' intelligence would enable them to surprise the Spanish before they could launch their own assault on the French camp. He'd given each regiment specific roles but it was down to the commanding officers to work out the detailed battle plans for their men.

They found their camp a hive of activity, as musketeers bustled here, there and everywhere. Fouchard saw them coming and ran up immediately. "We've been preparing in case we need to move, Sir."

Porthos grinned and clapped him on the back. "Good man. Call everyone to muster, will you?"

"Fouchard, wait. Where's d'Artagnan?" Athos breathed a sigh of relief when Fouchard answered his question by pointing to where d'Artagnan was working his way along the horse lines, checking their legs and feet to identify any who might be unfit to travel.

Porthos was looking at him. "What's up?"

Athos hadn't had time to brief him before the meeting with the generals, so he quickly filled him in now, seeing Porthos' brow crease in concern as he listened. The big musketeer looked over at d'Artagnan, commenting that he looked calm enough at the moment.

"You didn't see his face when he heard that name," Athos told him. "There's no way I'm putting him on the front line. I'll keep him back with me."

"He won't thank you for it," Porthos warned.

Sure enough when Athos had told his men of the plan to march on the Spanish encampment overnight, ready to launch a surprise attack at dawn the following morning, and went on to detail the starting positions of each man, d'Artagnan looked ready to explode when his name was not listed amongst those to start the attack, and he shot over to Athos as soon as they were dismissed.

"Athos, you" –

"I haven't forgotten you." Athos turned so d'Artagnan had to follow him, away from any listening ears. Porthos stood watching them for a moment, his face creased with concern and his arms folded across his chest, before heading off to organise the loading of equipment onto wagons.

"d'Artagnan, I'm not putting you into the front line. If you did run across him, it would be incredibly distracting for you – which means me, since I'm not letting you out of my sight tomorrow." Athos' voice was quiet but implacable.

d'Artagnan had already opened his mouth to argue, but as Athos' words sank in, he closed it slowly. He was aware of bristling at the implication that he needed looking after, but another part of him felt incredibly comforted by the thought of Athos watching over him.

He stopped to consider how he might react if he did see Ortega – or even worse, Bautista – tomorrow. He had no trouble whatsoever in recalling their faces, since both had appeared in his dreams almost every night since he was captured. But as for turning around in battle and seeing one of them advancing on him... His heart began to race at the thought. Would he freeze? Or would it be an overwhelming relief to be facing them with a weapon in his hand and friends at his side? Able to hit back, at last, after everything they had done to him, to Patrice, and to little Felipe... He shook his head to clear it, already swamped in emotions at just the thought of facing any of his tormentors, and realised Athos was right. Of course. Wasn't he always?

Athos had been watching the thoughts flitting across d'Artagnan's face and was puzzled by the slight smile that ended up on his lips. "Aren't you going to argue?"

His expression turned serious again. "No. I think you're right: I'm not sure how I would react."

"Hmph." It felt like a while since anyone had told Athos he was right.

"Where do you want me then? Please don't tell me I'm going to be your messenger again." d'Artagnan suddenly looked horrified, and it was Athos' turn to smile.

"No. I want you running a team of four, ready to pile in wherever you're needed. But behind the front line. And, d'Artagnan? I want you to be very clear about this. If you see Ortega – or anyone else you recognise – do not engage them. Just tell me: I will be right beside you. Is that clear?"

d'Artagnan nodded, then frowned. "What would you do if I did point one of them out?"

Athos scrutinised him closely. "What would you want me to do?"

All the breath disappeared from d'Artagnan's lungs as if he'd been punched in the solar plexus. The very idea of having a choice was literally breath-taking.

He stood motionless for a long moment, wondering if he would want to kill either of them himself, or let Athos do it, or whether it would be better to try to capture them and bring them to justice... Somehow he couldn't picture any scenario other than seeing their faces and freezing, as he did in his dreams. Aware of Athos still waiting for an answer, amidst the organised chaos around them as the regiment prepared themselves to march, he eventually had to admit that he didn't know.

Athos waited a moment longer, then patted him on the shoulder. "Tell me if you decide. Otherwise I'll just have to make a decision depending on the circumstances."

He turned to go to his tent, but d'Artagnan stopped him. "No. It would be stupid to make any kind of plan." Trying to honour a pledge to capture or kill a particular opponent could prove fatal in the fluid turmoil of battle. "In fact, it's better if I don't tell you at all. Anyway it's probably not him, or if it is" – he faltered for just a moment then lifted his chin in a familiar gesture – "the chances of me seeing him are remote amongst so many men. We should just fight like we would any other time."

"Is that really what you want?"

"What I _want_ is that we don't lose any Musketeers tomorrow. Regardless of who we're facing." His voice was low and intense as he looked deep into Athos' eyes, seeing his mentor nod, slowly.

* * *

It always astonished d'Artagnan how quickly a camp occupied by several thousand men for weeks could be dismantled and on the move. Within a couple of hours only the tents remained, looking tiny from the top of the ridge, and a dust trail following them as they headed south into the mountains.

It was a very risky plan. The scouts had reported that the French army was outnumbered roughly two to one by the Spanish force who were encamped on the floor of a narrow rocky valley. At the head of the valley was perched one of their ancient hill forts, its stone walls and terraces blending with the pink granite walls of the valley. Twin cannon mounted on stone platforms either side of the fort guarded the troops massed on the valley floor. The only advantage for the French would be surprise, and that they would be pinning the massive Spanish army into a tiny space which would restrict the impact of their superior numbers and hopefully prevent them utilising their experienced, well-drilled _tercios_ in the way that had seen the French defeated far too many times in this war.

General Faucille had sent numerous scouts ahead of the French army with orders to kill any Spanish patrols they saw. At all costs they must make sure word that they were on the move did not get back to the fortress. The Spanish commanders might be suspicious if the day's patrols did not return that evening, but they would not expect the French to be audacious enough to attack them in their mountain stronghold. Hopefully.

The Musketeers left their horses enroute, corralled in some abandoned farm buildings. There would be no place for them in the narrow valley during the battle, but they would be needed afterwards by scouts and messengers if things went to plan in the morning. If not... d'Artagnan shook his head to dispel the thought that Nuit or any of the other beautiful, intelligent horses might end up in the hands of the Spanish army.

Marching as silently as several thousand men could, and using every scrap of woodland cover to mask their dust clouds, the men were soon strung out along a narrow trail and d'Artagnan found himself walking with men from other regiments, among them Santerre, the Picardy soldier who had argued against killing their Lieutenant the night before. While breaking camp earlier, Santerre had sought him out to apologise to d'Artagnan for dragging him into Picardy business. d'Artagnan could see the sincerity in the man's eyes and had no hesitation in accepting his apology.

It was a strange feeling, walking with thousands of men in almost total silence through the starlit landscape. Santerre seemed to feel it too, and began quietly questioning d'Artagnan about life in Paris before the war. When he heard that d'Artagnan was married, Santerre confessed that he was worried about his own wife Elodie, as it was almost a year since he'd left their home near Éparcy.

d'Artagnan sympathised, recognising the name of the village close to the north-eastern front near the area where, they had heard, the fighting was intensifying.

"Still, if we succeed in the morning, maybe we'll finally get to go home and I can visit her. The Comte de Beauvais is keen to take our regiment back to the north so we can protect our homelands." Santerre's optimistic words were at odds with his apprehensive tone, and both men fell silent, thinking about the people they loved.

d'Artagnan was nearer his childhood home here than most of the musketeers, many of whom were Parisians, and had been glad to smell the familiar southern air when they were sent to protect the border with Spain. But his farm had long since gone, and his relations seemed safe enough at present. His heart belonged to Paris now, and the woman who waited there for him.

His heart constricted at the thought of Constance. More than ever he wished he'd been able to talk to her when he'd been in Paris a couple of months ago. She wrote often – cheerful letters, full of anecdotes about life in the Garrison and at court, but he found it harder and harder to write back to her. What could he say? "Had a great morning fighting today, only lost three men... Oh, and Athos flogged me but it's nothing to worry about..." How could he ever explain to her the things that had happened: the alienation from Athos; seeing Porthos disintegrate; all the troubles with Colombe; the massacre at Aribe?

Even the small things were hard to write about now. At the beginning of the war he'd written about every detail of the men he served with and the novelty of living at the front, but daily camp life was no longer glamorous. He couldn't write to her of the cold, the exhaustion, the scarce supplies, the blistered feet. And too many of the men he served with, and had called friend, were now just memories.

Still, in the quiet times – the tedious nights on watch, the long hard marches like today - the thought of returning to her was often the only thing that kept him going. In battle it was different. Then the only thing in his head was staying on his feet and looking out for his brothers. But now, on this night march, picking their way silently through the shadowy hills, he longed to see her again. He resolved to write to her at the first opportunity, even if all he could think to say was that he loved her and cherished the memory of every single moment they had spent together. Even the disagreements.

He chuckled quietly to himself before realising Santerre was looking at him oddly. "Just remembering how much I miss arguing with my wife," he explained.

Santerre nodded. "As long as they're safe, nothing else matters."

There was a sudden change of pace in the men around them and they both looked ahead to where the column of men had come to a stop. d'Artagnan clapped Santerre on the shoulder and moved off to find the rest of his regiment, calling a "be safe" softly over his shoulder.

They'd arrived in the adjoining valley, not daring to approach nearer for fear of alerting the Spanish. More scouts were immediately sent out and both Athos and Porthos went with them to get a feel for the task ahead. Their men settled in small groups, eating cold rations and trying to find comfortable resting spots on the bare, stony ground.

Someone sat by d'Artagnan's side with a thump, handing him a fresh water bottle and a hunk of bread. d'Artagnan took both with a smile of thanks for Guérin's thoughtfulness, but sat playing with the bread. His stomach was in knots and he didn't think he could swallow anything. After a moment Guérin nudged him. "You okay?"

"Mm. Yes, just thinking about tomorrow." That wasn't a lie and he was no different from anyone else in that respect: looking around he could see the same set expression and muted tension on everyone's faces.

"Me too."

There was something odd in Guérin's voice which d'Artagnan couldn't pinpoint. "Have you heard the plans?"

"Yes."

"Where will you be positioned?"

"I'm protecting the unit attacking the southern cannon, with Fouchard. You?"

"Backing you up." d'Artagnan couldn't keep a note of bitterness out of his voice. His assigned role for the start of the battle would put him two layers behind the action. The Musketeers, well used to operating in small groups independent of their officers, had been given the task of sending a small unit up to the south cannon, on the left of the valley. Their orders were to overcome the team manning the cannon and turn it to fire on the northern cannon to disable it. Without the threat of cannon fire to disrupt their advance, the rest of the army would be able to push forward and drive the Spanish into the head of the valley. Porthos would be in the centre of the action, along with most of the combined regiments' elite fighters, hoping to distract the Spanish from the attack on the cannon. If the Musketeers failed in the south, another unit would attempt the same on the northern cannon but the climb to that one was steeper and would be much harder. If both teams failed, it was very likely the whole attack would fail as the French army would be torn apart by continued cannon fire.

"Hey, don't knock it. For once I wouldn't mind being further back."

d'Artagnan looked at Guérin. It wasn't like him to shy away from a fight. "What's up?"

"Oh... I've just got a bad feeling about it all."

d'Artagnan grimaced. To put your body on the line, literally, pitting yourself against steel and musket fire, let alone cannon fire, took a certain type of madness that could only be sustained by a kind of arrogance that nothing would touch you. Most soldiers would agree that they were not courageous so much as crazy. As soon as you started thinking about the consequences, fear would creep in and that could prove fatal. It was as if the danger was powerless so long as you ignored it. Once you acknowledged it, most soldiers felt you were as good as dead. If Guérin had a foreboding about tomorrow, he would be vulnerable – but wasn't d'Artagnan in just the same situation? No wonder Athos had pulled him back to a reserve position.

He realised he'd been silent for a long time. "I know what you mean, but we've all had those feelings before, and we're still here, aren't we?" He nudged Guérin with his shoulder. "I've got your back, _mon ami_ , I promise you."

Guérin raised a smile for his friend. "Thanks. Appreciate it."

Quiet steps drew their attention and they saw Athos, returned from scouting, walking amongst his men, pausing to talk to those still awake. He looked over to the pair of them and frowned when he saw them sitting chatting, making no attempt to sleep. d'Artagnan grinned. "Come on, let's get our heads down before he tells us off for talking after lights out."

* * *

It was a long, chilly and uncomfortable night and few men slept much, although d'Artagnan did hear Porthos' unmistakeable snores several times – usually cut short with a snort when someone toed him in the ribs to shut him up. Athos himself didn't even lie down, as far as d'Artagnan could tell. Every time he shifted position he could see Athos walking silently around the men, or standing, one hand resting on his sword hilt, staring off at the deep shadows separating them from the next valley. Oddly comforted by the sight, d'Artagnan eventually drifted into a short but thankfully dreamless sleep.

They were woken up two hours before dawn by officers moving quietly amongst them, nudging feet and touching shoulders to rouse them. Moving stiffly in the cold night air, men stretched and wrapped arms around their bodies to warm up, before relieving themselves, filling water bottles and checking weapons one last time. Within ten minutes they were ready to go, moving silently through the ghostly landscape, spreading out in their assigned units well before they reached the next valley.

d'Artagnan was aware of his heart rate speeding up as he got his first glimpse of the fortress floating high above the misty valley below. He'd expected the Spanish encampment to be swathed in darkness but in fact it was hidden beneath a shroud of glowing yellow mist, lit from below by the light of hundreds of campfires. The only indication of the lurking danger came from an almost imperceptible sound which, after a moment, he realised was the hum of five thousand sleeping Spanish soldiers breathing in the still night air.

The French forces spread out across the mouth of the valley, moving slowly and silently in a relentless wave, until the foremost men were within a hundred feet of the Spanish army. There was an agonising pause while the last men moved into position behind them, and then, finally, a silent signal was given: General Faucille's arm was raised above his head then his fist drove forward. Other officers echoed the gesture, sending it rippling through the army in a silent wave to "advance!" and almost as one, the French soldiers rose and began to race towards the enemy.

It was the strangest start to any battle d'Artagnan had ever seen, as the ranks of men ran forward in a soundless but deadly attack. All he could hear was the muffled thudding of feet and the rasping of heavy breathing all around him, until ahead he heard clearly the first exclamations of surprise from the sleeping Spaniards, the first clang of metal on metal as blades met, and the gurgle as the first Spaniard died.

Things quickly became more chaotic, and with it, more normal. The familiar sounds of battle rose to drown out their footsteps and breathing and d'Artagnan once again became bodiless, just a part of the whole corps, part of the fighting machine of his army. It was an odd sensation that he could never get used to – his mind taking everything in, but his body seeming to operate without conscious thought, simply fighting: driving forwards, slashing, hacking, his own defiant roar as he lunged and thrust and elbowed his way forwards, ever forwards, tracking his comrades and always staying within sword's reach of their advance.

Occasionally the swell of men ahead of him separated for a second and he would have two strides' breathing space to look over to his left, where he knew the Musketeer unit would be heading for the climb up to the cannon. Once or twice he thought he saw movement on the rock face but then another Spaniard would be in front of him, or two, or three, and he could think of nothing else until the next lull.

He'd almost forgotten about looking for Ortega, but occasionally he heard Athos' voice close behind him, yelling instructions to watch the flank, press forward or regroup, and he knew Athos was keeping good his promise to stay close.

In turn he kept Guérin in his sights as much as possible, seeing him and the other Musketeers so well known to him working their way steadily forwards. He saw Duval take a vicious hit to the chest, and stumble backwards, but Laurent was there instantly, standing over him to fend off his attacker, giving Fouchard time to haul him to his feet and put his sword back in his hand. d'Artagnan worked his way towards them and together they formed a solid line on the southern wing, driving the Spanish away from the base of the fifty foot crag on which the cannon was perched.

* * *

Porthos was in the thick of battle in the centre of the valley, his dark curls flying as he swept his sword before him, clearing a space for others to advance towards the gates of the stone fortress. He'd deliberately kept away from d'Artagnan since Athos' revelation that one of the lad's captors could be in the army they were facing today, because he knew he would find it hard not to demand details that he suspected d'Artagnan wouldn't want to give, this close to battle. He'd found it tough enough refraining from questioning him when the Gascon returned from recuperating in Paris, but he'd accepted it, seeing that d'Artagnan was trying so hard to put everything behind him. Now he was wishing he'd pushed more, knowing this battle was likely to be the toughest one they'd faced, and wondering if it might be the last battle for one of them.

This was a mad scheme, and a mad battle, fought in the chaotic grey pre-dawn light, and he'd never been this far from his brothers in battle before. He'd never been in this scale of battle, come to that – few of them had; and although he was surrounded by superb fighters, men who he respected and had fought alongside many times, none of them were the ones he most longed to protect.

* * *

Athos was on the ground for this battle, revelling in the opportunity to be in the thick of the fight for once, instead of holding back to be visible to his men on horseback, constrained to guiding and directing. Today he could unleash every pent-up frustration of the last two and a half years, and he felt unstoppable.

There was another lull in the fighting on the southern flank, and Athos had time to check around him again. In the centre he could still see Porthos, now well forward of where Athos was fighting, steadily driving the Spanish forces back towards the walls of the fortress at the top of the valley. It was odd to be so distant, to be able to see Porthos' _schiavona_ sweeping all before him, to see his face as he roared encouragement to those around him, yet to be so far that he couldn't distinguish Porthos' voice above the battle roar. He dragged his eyes back to the left where he had d'Artagnan within his sights, working hard to keep the press of the fighting away from the team making their way up the crag.

There was a sudden change in the volume of the battle roar around him and he looked for the source. Atop the crag, the attack team had reached the platform and was now fighting hand to hand with the soldiers manning the cannon. It had not yet been fired, perhaps because it had been too dark until now to see accurately where to aim it without hitting their own forces, but now it was lighter he could see there were a dozen Spaniards up there and more were moving across the upper courtyard of the fortress, high above the battle, ready to help the defence.

Seeing this, Porthos and those around him redoubled their efforts, and soon reached the walls of the fortress where they quickly launched an attack on the huge wooden doors. Spotting the danger, the Spanish redirected their efforts to the walls around the doors, which took some of the pressure off the French team attacking the cannon, but even so they were struggling to get a firm foothold. Athos made a snap decision and yelled to Guérin, holding the line close by, to get his men up there to help.

d'Artagnan and those around him rushed to fill the gaps and protect Guérin and his men as they headed for the foot of the crag, but within seconds d'Artagnan saw his friend's blonde hair flail as he took a huge hit to the head. "Guérin!" d'Artagnan raced to his side, whipping his blade up to block the follow-up killer blow from the man attacking him, deftly finding a weakness and lunging forwards to drive his blade through the man's torso. Impatiently yanking it free without a thought for his foe, d'Artagnan turned to see Guérin's men hesitating at the foot of the crag, unsure whether to continue. One look at Guérin as he stood weaving on his feet, blood pouring from the gash across his forehead, told d'Artagnan he was unfit to fight, and he quickly steered the shaken man into the willing hands of those behind who would take him to the medics.

d'Artagnan looked to the top of the crag – where the attack force had disappeared from view as a swarm of Spanish uniforms flooded the platform – to the back-up force stranded at the base without Guérin, then swung back to hunt for Athos in the mêlée behind him. "Athos!" he bellowed, trying to make himself heard over the battle roar. Amidst the dust and swirl he saw Athos' grimy face turn his way. "Athos!" he yelled again, pointing to the crag then looking back, his meaning clear. He saw Athos hesitate, glancing quickly around, weighing up his options – then he nodded, reluctance written all over his face.

d'Artagnan didn't hesitate. With a yell he shouldered his way through the running battles and ploughed his way to the base of the crag. Reaching the dregs of Guérin's unit at the base of the cliff he had half a dozen with him as they began to climb rapidly and fluently.

He'd always been a good climber, spending hours scaling trees on his father's farm as a child or leading his friends in their impromptu races around the ruined walls surrounding the market place in Lupiac, and he made quick work of the climb. The battle sounds receded as he scrambled up, hands and feet finding holds easily in the craggy rock face. The sun was up now, and as he reached the top he could see the Spanish gunners working frantically around the gun, pulling it around to face the centre of the valley where the bulk of the French troops fought.

He hitched a leg over the edge of the platform and rolled to his feet, drawing his rapier in the same movement and killing one gunner before they even realised they were under attack again. d'Artagnan had barely time to spot the bodies of the first team lying where they'd fallen on the blood-spattered cobble-stones before the rest of Guérin's team reached the top and the nearby Spanish soldiers raced to defend their gunners.

They lost Cholet early on, but the others fought side by side with him, slowly gaining control of the platform until they had formed a line across the inner wall of the platform overlooking the main courtyard below. So far no new forces seemed to be heading their way but he knew it wouldn't be long, so d'Artagnan shouted at the rest of the team to finish the gunners while he and Fouchard held the perimeter. Once this was accomplished, their orders were to fire the cannon at the opposite platform, so Morel and Laurent started turning it back while Metier and Fouchard hurried to load a cannon ball into the muzzle after finding that the bag of powder was already loaded.

* * *

Fifty feet below, Athos could just make out d'Artagnan standing on the low wall, ready to repel any attempt to rush the platform by soldiers heading for the steps from the central courtyard. He could see the tip of the cannon turning, coming to bear on the northern cannon on the far side of the fortress.

d'Artagnan was looking over his shoulder at those struggling to reposition the cannon, so he missed seeing a Spanish soldier wriggling over the wall from the back of the gun platform where he'd been lying low. The man dropped down into the central courtyard and starting waving his arms frantically, shooing those on the steps back down, away from the gun platform.

Athos was keeping a close eye on the top of the crag and watched, mystified, as the flood of soldiers on the steps milled then turned, men now running away from the platform. A ball of dread settled into the pit of his stomach as he suddenly realised the implications. Had they sabotaged the cannon somehow? Why else would the Spaniards be frantically scrambling _away_ from the fight to control the cannon?

Seconds later Athos was racing towards the crag, screaming at the men nearest the foot to fall back, to get away, to run. As they began to respond, looking startled, his only thought was to warn d'Artagnan and the team on the platform before it was too late. But he'd only made it a dozen feet up the cliff before there was an almighty roar from overhead, and pieces of rock and metal shrapnel began to rain down around him.

* * *

 _I know, I know... it really is just the best place to split this chapter. Honest! I will try to get the next part up this weekend x_


	17. Warriors II

_I gave you a cliff-hanger (almost literally) but now a quick update, so I hope I'm forgiven (for a few minutes at least). This one's a short chapter by my standards but the next one is nearly ready and will hopefully be up on Tuesday. The next one probably won't be up until the weekend I'm still tying up loose ends. Speaking of which, HelenSG - yes, I'm sure Santerre gets some leave to visit Elodie when they head north. I'm telling you here because you'll just have to imagine that bit or this story will go on forever as we're rather focussed on d'Artagnan and Athos now. And I totally hadn't forgotten that he needs to see Elodie for her to be pregnant two years later in Fool's Gold. Absolutely not. Duh. (Who needs a beta when I have helpful readers like you guys LOL!)_

 _This covers the aftermath of an explosion and there is gore; I don't think it's too graphic but I apologise if anyone finds it upsetting._

* * *

 **Chapter 15: Warriors 2**

Athos clings to the cliff face, head ducked into his shoulder, hearing the hiss of molten metal hitting his leathers and sizzling in his hair. He can't remember when he lost his hat, and rues its loss as he feels the burn of singed skin and hair all over his head. Then he's climbing again, ignoring the sting in one thigh which suggests there's a piece of hot metal searing through his leathers. He can't spare a hand to brush it away so he just keeps climbing.

It's obvious the cannon exploded. He doesn't know why, but it doesn't matter. He's level with the central courtyard to his right and he can see the chunks of fallen stone and smouldering metal, and hear the cries of men who were hit by the shower of projectiles.

So he should be prepared for what he sees as he scrambles untidily over the last ledge and onto the platform. But he's not. He wasn't expecting to see so much blood, for one thing. And he knows he will never forget the acrid stench of smoke, tainted with something horribly like cooked meat, which assails his nostrils and clogs his throat.

There's not much left of the cannon. The wooden stand and wheels are now a hundred burning embers. Of the gun itself, only the central part of the bore remains, smoke still belching from the torn metal at both ends. The base of the breech, behind where the gunpowder sits in the chamber, has blown off backwards and embedded itself in the rock wall that rises to encircle the stone platform. The neck of the muzzle and most of the upper bore are nowhere to be seen, presumably now scattered in the form of chunks of burning metal which have dropped down all over the battle field below.

At first he doesn't see his men, because his eyes are looking for bodies. Smoke and dust swirl around the platform and it takes a while to realise that the rust-tinged rock and metal debris near his feet might be all that's left of one of his musketeers. It's not until he sees a familiar object, and stoops to drag a ragged leather pauldron from under a lump of shattered rock, that he realises just how devastating this explosion has been. Slowly he traces the pattern with his fingers and recognises it as belonging to Morel.

His whole body is trembling now, flooded with adrenaline and dread. He doesn't want to look, doesn't want to see any more. He already knows this nightmare scene will haunt him for years. But d'Artagnan was up here, and Metier, Fouchard, Laurent... he doesn't want to name them in his mind, but he has to know. Slowly he picks out each misshapen, broken body, including those in the first unit who had been overwhelmed by the Spanish defenders.

He heads on numb legs for the edge of the platform near the courtyard steps, where he saw d'Artagnan before the explosion, refusing to accept what his eyes are telling him. He finds nothing. He can't even work out where the steps were; now there's only a jumble of broken stone, a boulder-strewn slope. The devastating truth is staring him in the face but he can't take it in. He knows he's fooling himself but until he sees d'Artagnan's body he can't believe it. Won't believe it.

There's a flurry of movement from the central courtyard as a few Spanish soldiers start scrambling up the debris towards the platform, and he turns gladly to meet them, his body responding automatically to the cut and thrust of the sword even as his mind scrambles to catch up. He kills the first three men without pause, almost without noticing. One man gets past him but he doesn't bother to pursue him; he knows there's no one behind him to protect, because there's no one else alive on this platform.

He almost gags as the truth starts to hit him, then gasps as his lapse of concentration gives an opening to the last man, a brash young Spaniard who nicks him across the forearm. He kicks out in anger, sending the youngster tumbling back down the slope and making another couple of men think again about climbing up. Further away he catches sight of the top of Porthos' head as he erupts from a stone staircase onto the central platform, bringing with him a flood of Frenchmen driving the Spanish relentlessly before them. They're doing well, he has time to think, and wonders if any of the Generals has launched an attack on the northern cannon yet, now the plan has failed on this side. Then a nagging feeling makes itself known, and he remembers the man who got past him, and he whirls, half expecting to find a blade descending towards him.

But he's been lucky. The Spaniard is ignoring him, standing right at the back of the platform, the other side of the cannon placement. He's looking down at something on the ground, and Athos wonders if he's looking for a particular fallen comrade, just as Athos is trying – and failing – to do.

Then Athos sees the man's sword start to come up, swinging high above his head, and he hears the man chuckle, and he knows – somehow _he knows_ – that the man has found d'Artagnan.

He doesn't question his instinct. In a white hot fury Athos launches himself, sure only of one thing: that he will not allow the remains of the hot-headed, loyal, recklessly courageous Gascon to be desecrated by some bastard stranger. He will die before he lets that happen, no matter how stupid that would be.

Somehow he gets there, body-charging the man on his blind side. He has time to see a hook nose and a livid scar on the man's cheek as they both crash to the ground. Athos rolls quickly, and finds his feet a second before the other, adrenaline and fury overtaking the exhaustion and grief lurking deep in his body. d'Artagnan might be dead but right now there's still something Athos can do for him, and he launches into his role with frightening intensity. He brings his sword up so quickly that the Spaniard barely has time to scramble backwards. Athos lunges forward with a remise, a series of rapid attacks which the man can only parry frantically. Athos feels calm now: in control. _This_ , he can do. His opponent fights with skill but Athos' white-hot fury lends a fearsome power to his strokes. The Spaniard stumbles on some debris and recovers his balance but Athos seizes on the split-second lapse, threading his sword inexorably through the gap in his defences and impaling him in the stomach. The Spaniard folds slowly forwards over the blade, a look of utter surprise on his face, then crumples to the ground with a soft sigh.

Athos extracts his blade with difficulty, wipes it on the man's sleeve, then turns with more reluctance than he's ever felt before, to see what the man was looking at before he raised his blade.

These bodies are intact. The main force of the explosion must have gone the other way. Perhaps there was a weakness in the wall of the barrel on that side. He doesn't know much about cannon and can't imagine what caused it to explode. The Spaniard he'd spotted giving the alarm knew, though. Maybe they'd stuffed extra gunpowder down the barrel as they saw the French gaining the upper hand on the platform in the hope of achieving exactly this level of carnage.

He's standing over the two bodies now, and his mind slows from the distracting analysis of what might have caused the explosion, and everything stops, battle noise forgotten, as he looks on d'Artagnan's face.

The young Musketeer appears to be sleeping, not dead, though Athos knows it's not possible. There's far too much blood, for one thing: coating the side of his face, darkening the leather encasing his chest and pooling around his body. For another, his body looks mangled, his uniform shredded by the pieces of metal that pepper his body all down that side. He's lying on his back, legs sprawled carelessly towards the central courtyard, and the relentlessly analytical part of Athos' brain remembers seeing him turn towards the cannon just before the world exploded. Athos thinks it's a long way from the wall above the courtyard, and wonders how d'Artagnan ended up here, so close to the source of the explosion, but pictures him diving towards the man he's lying half across. His heart lurches as he realises this means d'Artagnan must have known something was wrong. He'd tried to protect one of the others: he knew what was coming.

This thought nearly kills Athos.

He's not aware of sinking to his knees but it seems he has, so when the body underneath d'Artagnan stirs he sees, as soon as the dark head turns, that it is Fouchard whom d'Artagnan died protecting. Of course. The two had formed a strong friendship and d'Artagnan looked after Fouchard even though there were only months separating the two in age: of course the reckless idiot would head _towards_ the danger, not away, if Fouchard was involved.

Once again Athos' mind has skittered away from the implications of the scene in front of his eyes and it is several seconds more before he reminds himself: Fouchard moved.

The young musketeer is lying face down, half covered by d'Artagnan's body. They are both lying almost behind the cannon, near the back of the platform. d'Artagnan must have hit him at full stretch and bowled them both to the ground just as the cannon exploded, trying to shield the youngster with his body.

Athos frowns, watching Fouchard's bloodied fingers twitching and reaching out automatically to clasp his hand reassuringly with his own. There's a shout from behind him and he looks around, wondering vaguely where his sword is and thinking that perhaps he won't bother standing and fighting again. He can't quite see the point.

The shout comes again and a face looms through the dust cloud still settling after the explosion: Santerre. Athos doesn't know why the Picardy man is here on this platform, but he's turning to beckon at other men behind him, and Athos realises there are three Frenchmen now, shouting at him, asking if he's hurt and if anyone is alive.

Athos rises with difficulty, because his legs don't feel like they belong to him, and jerks his head at Fouchard, whose hand he was still holding. He doesn't know how badly the lad is hurt but he's definitely still alive: he screams as they pick him up and manoeuvre him over the smoking rubble towards the edge of the platform. Athos wonders how they are going to get him down, but then he sees they've brought a rope with them. He watches them as they tie it around one man's waist and start to lower him as he holds Fouchard carefully in his arms. Santerre comes back and tries to steer Athos towards the edge of the crag but Athos simply shakes his head and waves Santerre to go ahead. He seems to have lost the power of speech.

Left alone on the platform, he turns slowly around and registers the chaotic battle going on in the central courtyard. He can't see Porthos but he knows the big man will be in there somewhere, and part of his heart seems to shrivel at the thought of telling Porthos that their youngest is dead.

He's not sure why he's still here, except that he knows he can't leave d'Artagnan. He'd promised to protect him, and although he's failed in the most devastating way, he can still keep d'Artagnan's body safe. It's all he can do for him, now.

He should have told Santerre to stay. Asked for the rope to be brought back up. He can't carry d'Artagnan down in his arms.

He looks again at the courtyard and realises the tide is turning again; the French are being driven back, and some of the Spanish are once again looking up at the cannon platform where he must be clearly visible. He sees someone point, and several men break away to head towards him.

Most of him doesn't care, but the thought of them looting d'Artagnan's body if he's not here to protect him drives him into action. He looks around for his sword, sees it close to d'Artagnan's body, steps over the rubble to reach it, and then it hits him; that nagging thought returns complete, this time: why is d'Artagnan lying face up, when he was diving through the air to protect Fouchard as the cannon exploded, and should have landed face down?

He reaches down for his sword, brain lurching from one thought to the next. Maybe Fouchard had pushed d'Artagnan's body off him before Athos got here, turning him onto his back. Maybe that bastard Spaniard had turned him to see his face before raising a blade to him.

He's picked up his sword now and starts turning to face those approaching him, before he wonders why the last Spanish soldier had gone to strike someone so clearly dead. And it's then, only then, that he sees the dark eyes are open. And they are tracking Athos' movement as he stands.

The shouts behind him increase in volume and without conscious thought Athos turns and engages the first man. He fights automatically, his body responding to the threat as he has done so many times before, and it's not long before two more are despatched with ruthless efficiency. In the courtyard below he can see others move his way, and knows he will soon be joined by too many for him to fight. Blinking sweat out of his eyes, he turns back to d'Artagnan, dreading the moment when he realises he'd imagined that spark of life.

The eyes are shut.

Had it been wishful thinking, or had he really seen d'Artagnan watching him?

He stoops, reaching a trembling hand to the beloved face, trying not to look at the tattered skin and mangled, blood-stained leathers, but as his fingers brush the Gascon's cheek, his eyes open again, impossibly bright jewels in the dark planes of his bloodied face. He falters, feeling warm, sticky blood on his fingertips, watching with detached disbelief as the Gascon pulls a ragged breath into his ruined chest.

 _How is he alive_?

 _How can he_ keep _him alive_?

Athos looks over his shoulder and sees the first heads rise into view as a swarm of Spanish soldiers reach the platform. He has seconds before they reach him. With chilling certainty he knows there are too many to fight on his own.

With no time to think, he simply acts. He drops his sword, steps over d'Artagnan, grabs him under his arms and heaves him around the smoking remains of the cannon towards the cliff edge. He ignores the gurgling gasp of pain as he stumbles backwards, dragging the Gascon's body roughly over the rubble.

But as he nears the edge, panting with effort, there's a shout from _behind_ him and in his peripheral vision he sees that an eager Spanish soldier has raced around to cut off his path to the platform's edge.

He's out of time.

Even if he could defeat this man before the others reach them, and get to the edge, he won't have time to lift d'Artagnan into his arms, and he's pretty sure he won't be able to climb down without dropping him; they'll both fall.

He glances to his left and notices a cleft in the ridge of rock encircling the platform. They're a step away from it and, without knowing what is there, and with no time to look, he switches direction and drags d'Artagnan's limp body to the gap. There's a soldier three paces from them as he hefts d'Artagnan, swinging his legs over the rim and into space. Grunting with effort he thrusts the deadweight forward, and pushes off himself as if he's jumping into a river, only he's jumping into space.

Behind him a blade swishes through the air where his body had been a second earlier, and he hears a cry of rage. But it's lost behind him – above him – as they both plummet through the air, Athos' hands desperately clinging to the tattered remains of d'Artagnan's doublet as they fall. He's not letting go of him now.

* * *

 _You won't believe me but I've only just realised I've delivered you another cliffie. Oops._


	18. Hope is So Much Stronger Than Fear

_A bit later than I expected, but I had to re-organise this and the next chapter when I realised my original draft focussed entirely on Porthos and left Athos & d'Artagnan in freefall, so to speak. Thought I might not be too popular if I posted it like that! So there is at least a hint now of their fate. And I promise I will post the next one super quick before you all explode. So don't yell at me, ok? :-)_

 **Chapter 16: Hope is so much stronger than fear.**

Porthos was halfway up the steps to the central courtyard when he heard the explosion. His team had just broached one of the wooden doors protecting the lower courtyard of the fortress when the explosion erupted from the south, far too loud for a simple cannon shot. Everyone ducked around him as burning metal splattered around them. He hit the deck, hands protecting his head, hearing the roar of battle subsiding momentarily as men turned to stare at the smoke billowing from the southern platform.

His soldier's brain knew immediately what it was, and his heart lurched as he thought of the men who may have been caught up in it. He'd seen the first group of musketeers reach the platform before he'd been engulfed in the fight for the steps. But he knew d'Artagnan and Athos were safe; he'd caught glimpses of both of them amongst those protecting the foot of the crag, well back from the explosion. So, thanking whichever god was looking after them today, he forged on up the steps, a wild-haired arrow-head for the French infantry who followed his lead.

Once in the courtyard the fighting was so intense that he could barely find time to breathe. Most of the Spanish generals were here, and though not all fought well, enough of their men flocked to defend their commanders to make it a fierce confrontation, and as the minutes wore on the French found themselves being pushed back towards the steps again.

Sensing they were losing the advantage Porthos took a step back and stole a minute to assess the situation. Off to his left, he could see the rubble and chaos leading up to the platform on which the cannon had stood, still wreathed in swirling smoke. For a moment he squinted, seeing a figure up there which looked startlingly like Athos, but then the dust shifted and the figure was gone. Shaking his head and wiping the stinging sweat from his eyes, he checked behind him, seeing a smattering of pitched battles surging around the base of the steps, but no surge of French reinforcements. From his right a cry of pain forced his hand as another Frenchman fell; gathering his wits he yelled to the remaining men to retreat back down the steps. They were outnumbered up here, but they would regroup below and try again, or tempt the remaining Spanish to follow them out to the valley floor where, he was confident, the French would prevail.

He was right, but it was another hour before they could attempt the steps again, this time in greater numbers. With their gates breached, the Spanish had attempted to erect a barricade but this was easily torn down when the French had re-organised themselves, and once up on the courtyard in large numbers, they were able to attack the platform where the northern cannon was housed. It had finally been brought into action, but those operating it couldn't bring it to bear on the French troops who were by then too close to the fort to be hit by the cannon fire, and most of the balls fell uselessly further up the valley. Once the French reached the platform in force, fighting their way up the steps from the courtyard, they were finally able to silence the cannon, which seemed to stun the remains of the Spanish forces into surrendering.

It was a massive victory for the French, and the commanding officers were jubilant, one after the other coming to Porthos and those who'd spearheaded the attack with him, clapping them on the shoulder and congratulating them on this epic battle. Porthos treated the praise the same way he treated abuse and prejudice – with good-humoured indifference. That wasn't why he fought: he fought to keep his brothers safe, and their safety was reward enough for him.

* * *

Athos barely had time to feel a moment of sickening weightlessness before the cliff punched him cruelly in the back, knocking all breath from his lungs. His upper body started to tip forwards and he had a glimpse of solid granite rushing past his face. He twisted desperately, trying to keep his own body between the cliff and d'Artagnan's limp weight, and was rewarded by another impact as his hip and shoulder grazed the rock, slowing their descent as it tore into his leathers. The clawing of the cliff's fingers slowed his body but as he bounced into another spur of rock d'Artagnan's body, still unimpeded by impact with the ground, was ripped from his grasp. Athos lunged desperately and just managed to grab a flailing arm as the two continued their precipitous, tumbling descent.

Slowly the mountain's fingers overcame gravity's pull and they skidded to a halt, rocks, pebbles and gravel still raining down past them. Athos felt a jolt in his free arm as he tried to protect d'Artagnan from the final impact, but paid no heed as he frantically lurched to hands and knees. searching for a pulse, waiting for agonizing seconds until his fumbling fingers found it, fast and frantic but definitely there.

Letting out a sob with the breath he didn't know he'd been holding, Athos rested a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and shut his eyes for a moment, trying to drag air into his battered lungs, letting his brain catch up with his body. His head was pounding, and he could feel blood trickling down his cheek where the mountain had clawed him. His left arm began to throb, joining the burning in his right forearm from ... something. A sword-cut; a piece of shrapnel... he couldn't remember any more. The last few minutes had been so intense and shattering that now his tattered mind struggled to connect with his surroundings.

A dozen imperatives were shooting through his mind – things he needed to help d'Artagnan survive, like bandages and water and blankets and a safe path down and someone to _help_ him – but just for a moment he slumped back onto his heels and simply breathed in the knowledge that they were both, somehow, still alive.

A slight movement under his palm alerted him and he snapped open his eyes to find d'Artagnan's deep brown eyes looking up at him. Relief flooded his body and he started to ask how he was feeling, but he stopped as he saw d'Artagnan's gaze widen with alarm at something over Athos' shoulder. Twisting quickly, his hands reaching fruitlessly for his missing sword, pistol or anything with which to defend them, he saw what d'Artagnan must have seen: heads peering over the edge of the rock face forty or fifty feet above them, hands pointing. Then the barrel of an arquebus swung over the edge and came to bear directly on where the two musketeers lay, helplessly vulnerable on the bare rock of the mountain slope.

Without hesitation Athos flung himself over d'Artagnan's torso in a desperate attempt to protect his injured friend. There was a moment of infinity in which green eyes met brown, a moment when Athos looked deep into d'Artagnan's soul and was humbled by the love and trust he saw there. Then there was no more time: there was only shock, and pain. His body lurched at the impact of the ball as it punched its way through him and a line of fire lanced through his chest in its wake. Athos dimly registered the sound of the shot echoing around the ravine, and then d'Artagnan faded from his sight as darkness engulfed him.

* * *

Tasked with overseeing the surrender, it was several hours before Porthos could finally make his way back to where the rest of the Musketeers had regrouped. So it was with weary anticipation that he trudged into the circle of musketeers who were gathered around one of many camp fires in the lower end of valley, away from the worst of the battle-stench, tending each others' wounds and sharing what rations they had left. All looked weary beyond measure but there was something else, an undercurrent, that Porthos detected as soon as he'd found them.

Looking around speculatively he felt his heart-rate increasing as he found the gathered men evading his gaze, and no Athos, or d'Artagnan. Guérin was also missing, and Metier, and Fouchard, and Morel, and... How many more? Where were they?

Clearing his throat against a sudden huskiness which had nothing to do with the tang of gunpowder still drifting in the air, he came to a halt by Marron, a veteran he'd known since he first joined the Musketeers, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Tell me," he demanded, in the tone of voice that brooked no argument.

Marron took a moment to reply, first looking around the other men as if gathering courage from them. Just as Porthos was contemplating grabbing him around the collar and shaking him, he took a breath and said quietly: "We lost at least eight men, and twice that number injured. We've taken them back to Etienne and most aren't too serious but Fouchard's bad, I mean really bad, and –"

He didn't have time to say more before Porthos had interrupted. "Who did we lose?"

Marron sighed and stood, wearily, turning to face Porthos before listing the names of their men – their friends; some they'd helped to train, some who were old enough to have trained them when they first joined. They'd shared countless jests and adventures, meals and campfires, and now they were gone.

Porthos listened patiently, with a set face, only his rapid breathing giving away the turmoil of his feelings. When Marron had finished listing the injured, Porthos squeezed his arm in thanks, or perhaps for support as he finally found the courage to ask. "And Athos? d'Artagnan? Where are they?"

There was a long silence around the fire which sent Porthos' anxiety level sky-high even before Marron spoke reluctantly. "Athos sent d'Artagnan to lead Guérin's men after Guérin was injured. The first unit had been overwhelmed on the platform. We saw d'Artagnan make it to the top, with some of the others – Fouchard, Metier, Morel, Cholet, Laurent. Then Athos started yelling at everyone to pull back from the cliff, just before the cannon exploded. We don't know – he must have seen something, or suspected something... After the explosion, Santerre took some men up and they found Athos up there. He sent them back down with Fouchard but didn't follow them. Jumot's talking to the other commanders now about sending out search parties for Athos, but –"

Porthos let out what could only be described as a growl, turning on his heel and forging out of the circle of men. "Bugger that, we'll just get out there an' find 'im. Come on!"

"Porthos, wait!" Marron called out, a note of desperation in his voice.

Porthos slowed, but didn't turn. "What?"

"You should... Santerre said..." Marron stopped again, looking around desperately.

" _What_?" Porthos snapped, turning now and striding back towards Marron, stopping so close that Marron took a step backwards.

"It's d'Artagnan. Santerre said..." Marron ground to a halt again.

Porthos stepped deliberately forward into the man's personal space and positively growled at him. "Tell me."

"He's dead. There were no other survivors." The blunt declaration came from Jumot, coming up quietly behind Porthos and placing a consoling hand on his fellow lieutenant's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Porthos but there's no doubt. Santerre saw d'Artagnan's body. Fouchard was underneath him; apparently that's the only reason he survived."

Porthos shut his eyes, his nostrils flaring as he fought to get his emotions under control. Then he shook Jumot's hand off. "No... no, no, that's not righ'. If... no, if that's true then where is 'e? Where's 'is body then eh, tell me that? An' Athos, where is 'e? Athos wouldn't 'ave left 'im if 'e'd found 'im..."

Jumot's expression was gentle as he took Porthos by the arm, turning him slightly away from the listening men. "There's no doubt," he said again.

"Bugger that!" Porthos shook Jumot's hand off and pushed past him without another word, heading determinedly for the path leading up the centre of the valley again. There was no doubting his intention to search the platform. Behind him those men who'd been up there during the afternoon, and seen the carnage for themselves, exchanged glances. Jumot sighed, and set off after Porthos, calling to a couple of others to accompany him.

* * *

Porthos retraced the path he'd trodden all morning in record time, taking the steps to the fort's central courtyard at a run, in spite of his exhaustion. The rubble-strewn slope leading up to the cannon platform barely slowed him down and by the time Jumot caught up he was standing in the centre, staring silently around at the bloodied stones and twisted metal.

The clean-up crews had been up here, and the remains gathered and moved as reverently as possible under the circumstances, but evidence of the bloodshed was still clear to be seen on the stained rubble and twisted metal. Porthos looked as shaken as Jumot had ever seen him, and even as he reached him, Porthos' face twisted and an inarticulate sound of grief escaped him before he clapped a hand over his mouth as if to physically keep his feelings inside.

Jumot shut his eyes in a sympathy that was rooted deep in his stomach, and reached out a hand to Porthos. For a moment Porthos sagged and Jumot virtually held him up, one hand on each shoulder, patting him and utterly unable to speak. They'd both lost friends up here.

Then Porthos hissed through his teeth, jaw clamped tight on his emotions, and pulled away from Jumot. With an air of desperate determination, he started searching the platform in earnest, stooping to shove the rubble aside, handling the massive chunks of rock as if they were weightless.

"Sir?" Marron was standing behind Jumot, watching. He looked shaken, and worried.

Jumot sighed. "He's checking for ... evidence ... that they were here."

"But Santerre saw them both."

"I know. He just needs to believe it for himself."

Porthos suddenly stiffened and stilled his manic efforts, staring at something on the ground near the back of the platform. They watched as he stooped and picked up a sword, running his fingers reverently over the hilt. Pushing it through his belt he turned and started back towards Jumot but then stopped again and gathered up a second sword. His jaw worked constantly as he struggled to contain his emotions, and Jumot went to meet him, feeling totally inadequate. He couldn't imagine Porthos without either Athos or d'Artagnan at his side. He tried to think of words that might comfort Porthos but the big man gave him no time to speak. "I need to see 'em. Where are they?"

"We haven't found their bodies, but..."

" _Then they're not dead_." Porthos virtually shouted the words, his voice thick with raw emotion.

"Porthos, we'll look for them – "

"If Santerre saw them up here, an' you've collected the bodies of the others, then where are they?"

It was a good question, and Jumot didn't have an answer.

"Athos might have fought his way down, but that doesn't explain where he is now..." Santerre had quietly joined them on the platform, unsure of his welcome amongst the grieving Musketeers. But he'd seen Porthos storm back up here, and couldn't stop himself from following. In the aftermath of battle, regimental divisions were forgotten and Porthos simply turned to him and demanded to know what he'd seen.

Santerre filled him in quickly and Porthos seemed to crumple at the realisation that Athos had sent Santerre back down with Fouchard and stayed with d'Artagnan. Porthos knew that if d'Artagnan had been alive Athos would have insisted on Santerre's men helping to rescue him. He sank to the ground and dropped his head into his hands, rubbing at his temples then covering his eyes with one massive hand as he slowly dragged in a deep breath.

Then he lurched to his feet again, looking around with fire in his eyes. "We find 'em." Hands on hips, chin jutting forward aggressively, he fixed each man with a look of pure determination. "They're still out there somewhere, and we're not leavin' 'em behind."

As simple as that, he turned and strode back down the slope to the central courtyard. And as simple as that the others, pushing aside their own injuries and weariness, turned to follow him.

* * *

They searched the whole fortress inch by inch. They searched the valley as it was slowly emptied of bodies and the detritus of battle, men from both sides gathering their own. They searched the medical tents and the temporary mortuary where the bodies of a hundred Frenchmen were laid out awaiting burial. They searched the pathways between the battle-site and their camp several miles away. They questioned the Spanish prisoners, and checked their wounded and dead. Half-a-dozen musketeers, plus Santerre, became a dozen, then twenty, then thirty searchers as word spread that the much-respected Musketeer captain, and the popular young Gascon, were missing.

By midnight the valley was virtually deserted and those still searching had gathered back at the campfires near the valley mouth. All were shattered, their bodies pushed beyond their limits for far too long. They huddled close around the fire, aching limbs struggling to find rest on the cold, stony ground. Only Porthos was still on his feet, pacing restlessly as he waited for the last of the searchers to return from their latest endeavours. Everyone knew it was hopeless but there was an unspoken agreement amongst those still left that they would not abandon the search until Porthos gave up.

Suddenly there was a shout from the darkness beyond the flames of their fire and the sound of men's feet running towards them. As they approached, the weary watchers saw it was Santerre, and behind him – of all people – Colombe, both men sweating even in the chill night air.

"Porthos! We found someone who saw them!" called Santerre as he clattered into the circle of light.

"Them?" Porthos seized on the word. Did this mean they were both still alive?

"Amongst the prisoners..." Santerre stopped to grab a breath, leaning over with his hands on his knees.

"We found someone who saw Athos move d'Artagnan's body." Behind him Colombe stepped forward and spoke tentatively but with quiet dignity.

Colombe knew he was unwelcome in the musketeer camp so it was all the more astounding that he had joined the searchers, but Porthos could spare no energy to wonder about this when every fibre of his being ached for news, one way or the other, to end his torment. He'd registered the word 'body' but dismissed it instantly. Athos was still with him so he must be alive. "Where?" he demanded.

"Athos took him over the side of the platform."

"Over the ... What d'you mean?"

Santerre took over, explaining that they'd spoken to one of the Spaniards who'd been up to the platform after the explosion. They said there'd been a French soldier there who'd killed several of their men. Their commanders had then sent a larger number to cut him down, but he'd dragged one of the bodies with him over the side furthest from the fortress.

"Not over the front, where they'd climbed up?" Porthos' brow furrowed, trying to remember the layout. He'd looked over the side when searching the platform again, and had seen only an un-climbable jumble of rocks dropping down the side of the mountain.

Santerre and Colombe were both clear about what they'd been told, but unsure where this left them. None of the searchers had seen any evidence of bodies down there and it was now pitch dark so there was no point in searching until morning.

Porthos, of course, had other ideas. "Righ', we need torches. Can't get down there from the top in the dark, so we'll head up from the bottom." Matching words to action, and oblivious to the looks being exchanged amongst the others, he started searching through the woodpile for suitable wood to use as torches. Sighing, some of the men struggled to their feet and fetched cloth and pitch to help him.

Porthos lit the first torch from the fire then peered around at the rest of the men. "Anyone not got the energy to search, head back to camp," he instructed them softly, seeing the weariness on every face. Without waiting to see who, if anyone, would follow, he picked up an unlit torch and shoved it in his belt as a spare, clearly intending to be out all night if necessary. As he set off, he heard a murmur of movement and soon half a dozen flickering flames were shadowing him as he headed for the mass of granite which rose to encircle the valley they'd fought so hard for that morning.

Somehow he would find a route up to the ravine he'd seen. Somehow he would find them, because nothing would stop his belief that they were still alive. They'd nearly lost d'Artagnan before, and Athos would not leave him while there was hope, so Porthos would not give up on either of them until he held their bodies in his arms.


	19. Burning Brighter Than Ever Before

_Sorry, sorry, sorry! I promised a quick update but the snowstorm, trying to keep my workplace open in the face of snow, ice and power cuts, and fighting off a bug meant the last couple of days have flown by. On the plus side we are still snowbound (or rather ice-bound) and it's far too cold to do housework, so I'm forced to curl up on the sofa with a warm basset-hound at my side and write!_

 **Chapter 17: Burning brighter than ever before**

d'Artagnan drifted in and out of consciousness, barely aware of his surroundings. Occasionally everything sharpened back into focus for a few seconds and he felt an ocean of pain lapping at his body, but then the world wobbled and faded away and he sank back beneath the dark waters. He felt impotence and frustration – he knew there was something important he should be doing – but the world was completely outside of his control and for the moment all he could do was float above the sea of pain which, he somehow knew, awaited him when he opened his eyes.

He had no idea how much time had passed since... something ... What had happened? He couldn't actually remember the last thing he remembered. He thought he should be worried by this, but he couldn't muster the energy.

He was finding it hard to breathe; it felt like there was a heavy weight crushing his chest. After a while he realised there actually was something there; he tried to raise a hand to push it away but nothing happened. He couldn't feel his hands; everything was numb. It was dark, and he couldn't feel his legs either, only the weight on his chest and the pain waiting in the shadows.

It occurred to him that he might be dead. He moved his head, tried to look around, wondering if he'd get a glimpse of golden light, or just something he recognised. But the tiny movement sent pain lancing down his neck and back and he cried out in agony – and realised something; no, two things, he thought, clumsily. The first thing was that he could move his head, so he still had a body, and it _hurt_ – which he guessed meant he was still alive.

The second realisation was that he couldn't hear anything. His throat clenched with a cry of agony when he moved his head, and he could feel the vibrations in his chest, feel the air rushing over his tongue, but his cry was silent. He wondered if he'd lost his voice or his hearing, but the rush of impressions had exhausted him already and he slipped back into the cool arms of darkness with relief.

When he next stirred, he found the weight on his chest had moved. Was moving, in fact. He opened his eyes warily, remembering the pain he felt last time he tried, and saw a blurry shape right in front of his eyes. He squinted, blinking sticky eyelids, and the shape slowly resolved into a familiar face. Athos. He felt a rush of emotion as the name floated into his consciousness, and knew this man was dear to him. "Athos!" he called, but heard nothing. Slowly he remembered that his world had gone silent. The pain held at bay by the darkness crept a little closer. The weight on his chest shifted again, and there was a vibration in his chest as the face twisted. Athos was speaking, he thought, and he tried to smile, but that tiny movement cracked the fragile wall holding pain at bay, and like the tide rushing to fill a sandy moat, pain began to punch its way through his defences.

His chest heaved as panic crowded on the heels of pain. It was going to hurt. He couldn't remember why, but he knew his body was damaged and the fact that he couldn't speak, couldn't ask for help or cry out, was terrifying. And now the pain was insistent, demanding attention, and he could feel it looming larger and stronger by the minute. Very soon he wouldn't be able to ignore it any longer. He stared at Athos, willing him to open his eyes before the pain dragged him under.

And, as if he'd spoken aloud, the blue-green eyes suddenly opened and for a moment frozen in time, they were nose-to-nose again, and Athos smiled at him. But d'Artagnan saw his features twist and felt another rumble in his chest as he saw Athos gasp in pain, and then the weight disappeared from his chest as Athos rolled off him, and he wanted to cry even as he relished the sweet air rushing into his lungs, because he missed his warmth.

* * *

The first thing Athos saw when he opened his eyes was a pair of dark eyes fixed intently on his: d'Artagnan was conscious. Athos couldn't remember, for a moment, how they come be here, but he knew deep in his bones that he had nearly lost d'Artagnan and for several heartbeats all he could feel was a surge of grateful love.

He was lying across d'Artagnan's body and he felt the other man move restlessly under him. It was coming back to him now, the image of d'Artagnan's bloodied body lying amongst the ruins of the cannon, and he couldn't imagine what pain the other man was in. His weight could only be making things worse so he put his hands to the ground either side of d'Artagnan's shoulders to lift himself off, before remembering why this was a bad idea.

He'd been shot.

A gasp of agony escaped him before he could hold it in, but d'Artagnan was struggling feebly under him, eyes blinking slowly in distress, so he pushed through his own pain and rolled off, hissing as his bruised back touched the bare ground. He lay for a second, or a minute; he had no idea how long, able only to wait for the nausea to settle. In the end it was only the urgent need to make sure d'Artagnan could now breathe that drove him to push upwards on his hands – swearing as the throbbing in his left arm surged to meet the ball of fire in his chest – and lurch to a sitting position.

When the world had stopped whirling, he looked around to get his bearings.

It would be nice just for once, he thought bitterly, to have imagined the worst and woken to find it was a dream. Sadly, as the events of the previous hours slowly re-established themselves in his consciousness, the reality was all too dire. d'Artagnan had been caught in the explosion. Fouchard was badly wounded, the others dead. They'd gone over the edge of the mountain and no one knew they were even alive, let alone where to find them. Not forgetting, of course, that he'd been shot. The clamour of pain from his upper torso left no room for doubt about this last.

For the first time he dared to look down, and exhaled noisily in relief when he saw the dark stain spreading from just left of his armpit. The ball had entered high on his shoulder and passed right through him. Although he was still losing blood he had felt worse: the shot must have missed anything vital. He could still use his right arm which he hoped meant there will be no lasting damage, but there was a dragging ache in his left forearm which was sadly familiar. Something's broken, he thought sluggishly, remembering belatedly the pain as he had tried to bring their slide to a halt.

He couldn't see any heads peering down from above. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious; the bastards must have assumed they were both now dead. Which didn't feel far from the truth, if he was honest, but then he had always been good at ignoring uncomfortable truths. It was more important that they were completely vulnerable here, and they needed to move.

He struggled to his knees, ignoring the waves of pain that pulsed through his body at the moment, peeled off his gloves and bent over d'Artagnan, whose eyes had closed again, to check his pulse. He remembered doing this several times already, and found the heartbeat was slower now, but steady, and he swallowed the lump of apprehension in his throat.

He looked over the young Musketeer properly for the first time since finding him apparently dead on the platform above. His skin was almost black with soot from the explosion, but marked with patches of oozing blood and tracks of sweat. His entire left side looked somehow melted, as if skin and clothing had melded in a mess of torn flesh and oozing blood. There were black gouges all down his leathers where burning metal had peppered his body, and ... He breathed out a soft curse and reached a trembling hand to the lump protruding from d'Artagnan's left side, a lump that had no business being there. He touched it delicately, hoping it will be something soft, a spur of flesh or leather perhaps, but it was not. It was hard, and felt cold, and horribly slick.

It was a piece of metal, coated in d'Artagnan's blood. He stared at it, his finger tips brushing its surface, his mind reeling. It was a fragment of the cannon, he realised, embedded in his lower ribs. Athos tried to lift the torn leather uniform to see underneath, and d'Artagnan opened his eyes, and screamed.

 _Christ_! Athos shushed him frantically, checking over his shoulder at the skyline above them. Still no heads, but he couldn't risk it, and clapped his hand over d'Artagnan's mouth, feeling him struggling feebly for a second, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went limp.

Athos took his hand away, his own heart still thundering, and patted d'Artagnan gently on the chest, then snatched it back as he realised the leather under his hand was sticky with blood. He'd thought the damage was all on d'Artagnan's left side: what had he missed? He peered at the leather on d'Artagnan's shoulder and saw, to his horror, a round hole from which blood was oozing. The kind of hole he'd seen far too many times, and which no doubt matched the holes in front and back of his own leathers. A hole left by a musket ball.

The ball fired from above – when he'd flung himself across d'Artagnan to protect him – must have passed right through his own body and straight into d'Artagnan, high on his chest. For a moment Athos couldn't breathe properly. Jesus! The lad's body surely couldn't take any more punishment. He'd already lost so much blood... Athos could feel his panic rising and tried to gulp it back down, to steady his breath. From that distance, and passing first through his own body, the ball could not have penetrated far. d'Artagnan was conscious, sort of, and they weren't dead yet. Prioritise, he told himself.

Safety first. He had no idea what was happening above but if any Spaniards spotted them still moving down here on this bare slope they would be easy targets: they had to move. Gritting his teeth, he made it to his feet, waited until the dark spots recede from his eyesight, then stooped to gather d'Artagnan.

He quickly realised he couldn't do it. Both of his arms felt weak and although he got his right arm under d'Artagnan's shoulders, he couldn't muster enough strength to lift him; his arms were both damaged and his muscles just wouldn't respond.

He swore, and sank to his knees again, dropping his head and watching the sweat dripping from his forehead until he had control of his breathing again.

He would not stop until he'd got d'Artagnan safe, even if it killed him. So he didn't have a choice; he had to move them both somehow.

Resolutely he reached around d'Artagnan, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, laced his fingers together around his back, then rocked back on his knees and heaved.

It wasn't elegant but it worked. He managed to pull d'Artagnan's upper body up and the Gascon's full weight flopped onto Athos' chest. Ignoring the hard rock digging into his knees, Athos wobbled, trying to balance the deadweight. It was like trying to stuff jelly into a coin purse, he thought irritably, but eventually he had him balanced just so, and shoved his right shoulder under d'Artagnan's, then struggled to his feet again, this time managing to drag d'Artagnan upright with him.

They stood, although that might be too strong a word for it, with Athos swearing, fingers slipping on blood-slick skin, and for a moment he thought he was losing the Gascon and he would drop back to the ground in a lifeless puddle, but then he felt the battered body slowly stiffen and take a tiny bit of his own weight, and the pained brown eyes struggled open again.

"d'Artagnan! Can you walk?" he asked urgently, stifling the urge to look above him again: if he moved too much he feared he would lose the precarious balance he'd achieved and d'Artagnan would crash back to the ground.

There was no answer. His head was drooping, his eyes skittering around their surroundings.

"d'Artagnan? Dammit, answer me!"

And this time his head turned slowly, and a slow smile spread across the filthy, bloody features.

"Can you walk?" Athos asked again, shifting his grip slightly. He was terrified of knocking against the metal protruding from d'Artagnan's left side, and knew he had to swop sides, but he wanted to be sure the Gascon could hold himself up before he tried this manoeuvre.

d'Artagnan's eyes fastened on Athos' mouth, which didn't strike Athos as odd until he realised that yet again d'Artagnan had not answered. A chilling thought nagged at him.

"d'Artagnan?" He refused to listen to the doubt in his mind, but then d'Artagnan's eyes creased in distress and he shook his head ever so slightly.

"I can't hear... " he croaked, then erupted into coughs that brought a soft cry of pain as he folded over himself, arms flailing feebly. Athos reached automatically for his water bottle, usually hanging at his belt in battle, and found it was missing, presumably ripped off during their fall. Of course. Luck was hardly with them, today.

He looked at d'Artagnan again as the coughs subsided and saw, this time, the thin trails of dried blood which had trickled from both his ears. Cold fear clamped his stomach. How was he even standing?

He realised d'Artagnan was watching him with fierce concentration, but his face frequently twisted and his body shuddered, and Athos knew he was fighting to stay conscious. They had to move.

Speaking as clearly and slowly as he could, he told d'Artagnan he was going to shift sides. d'Artagnan blinked in incomprehension and Athos tried again, telling him tersely to "stand still!" then changed his grip and managed to get to d'Artagnan's right side without dropping him, though there was a nasty moment when he removed his shoulder and the Gascon lurched to the side. Athos snatched hastily at his leather and jerked him back upright, then rammed his left, uninjured shoulder under d'Artagnan's right arm and got them both anchored again.

They swayed together for a moment, both men breathing heavily. He'd almost forgotten his own injuries in his desperate worry over d'Artagnan, but he knew he was still losing blood – he could feel the wetness spreading down his shirt under his leathers – and they both urgently needed proper medical attention. He could feel d'Artagnan's body shuddering constantly against him. He couldn't tell if it was from pain or the effort of standing but he knew they had to move straight away, before d'Artagnan blacked out again. There was no way Athos could carry him with his own injuries; if he slipped unconscious he would have to wait with him, or drag him, and neither were good options.

So he nudged d'Artagnan and jerked his chin, and d'Artagnan nodded, and they took an uncoordinated step. Athos hissed as d'Artagnan lurched and nearly fell, his weight yanking on Athos' left arm. He couldn't feel bone shifting, so he thought the break was not a bad one, perhaps just a hairline fracture, but his hand felt weak on that side and the whole limb was aching. However he refused to let go, and in the face of his fierce determination, they took another step. Then another.

Step by step and inch by inch they lurched down the rocky slope, stumbling to find a path between the boulders and crevices of the steep scree. Sometimes there was no room for them to manoeuvre side-by-side so Athos went first, walking almost backwards with d'Artagnan's body cradled against his chest. The Gascon's feet were floppy and uncoordinated and Athos thought he probably had little or no idea where he was placing them.

They didn't talk. Athos didn't have the breath, and d'Artagnan couldn't hear him anyway, but actually there was no need. Their bodies were moulded together by necessity, and Athos felt every tremor in d'Artagnan's body, knew exactly where he needed support, when he was losing balance, and when he needed a rest.

By contrast d'Artagnan had very little awareness. He felt completely disconnected from everything, aware of little but the pain and weakness that threatened to overwhelm his body. Everything around him looked grey and fuzzy and he knew he was battling to stay conscious. Inside he was sobbing with pain, but he didn't make a sound. He trusted his brother, and if Athos wanted him to move, he would move.

Eventually Athos had to stop. He was drenched in sweat – at least he hoped it was sweat – and his legs were trembling so violently from the effort of moving that he couldn't lift them anymore. He steered them both towards a spur of rock and tried to lower d'Artagnan gently, but lost balance as d'Artagnan's deadweight got away from him and they both crashed to the ground. Athos panted, sweat pouring down his dirt-smeared face, and struggled to his knees to check d'Artagnan again. He'd gone limp, his eyes closed again, but his pulse still thrummed under Athos' fingers and he exhaled noisily in relief.

He settled beside him to rest, his aching left arm still wrapped around the slender waist just below the awful shard of metal embedded in d'Artagnan's side. It didn't seem to have moved, and he couldn't feel much blood. Maybe it wasn't that deep.

He felt a flicker of hope as he looked around, taking in their surroundings properly. He couldn't see the top of the mountain anymore, only chaotic pillars and rock falls, so they'd covered a reasonable distance and at least they were safe from further overhead attack now. His heart sank when he looked forward though; he couldn't see far ahead but if he squinted, he thought he could see the valley floor between two spurs of granite. It seemed a long way down still.

It was also getting dark. Where had the day gone? When everything went haywire, the battle was only an hour or two old. How long had they been lurching around on the side of this god-forsaken mountain?

For the first time since they fell, he had time to wonder what happened in the battle, and his heart started pounding uncomfortably. He'd left his men in the middle of their biggest ever battle. He tried to remember where he last saw Porthos, and which of his men had still been on their feet. Did they get the wounded away safely? Were they still fighting, or had they been overwhelmed? He should be there, making sure everyone was alright. He knew Porthos would do it just as well as he could, but only if he was still alive. What if he was ... He shook his head, shying from the terrible thought. That way, madness lay.

Still, it made him wonder if he shouldn't leave d'Artagnan here and try to get back to his men alone. He could move much faster on his own, and if he could find them – if they were still encamped, and not dead or imprisoned – he could bring help back. d'Artagnan would be safe here, for a little while, tucked in this fold of rock, and it would surely be better for him to rest than force him to move again which couldn't be doing his injuries any good. And, if he was honest, he was not sure how much longer he would have the strength to hold his brother upright.

He turned to d'Artagnan decisively and found the dark eyes watching him closely, so he mustered a reassuring smile from somewhere deep inside, and pushed himself off the rock so he could face him. "I'm going for help. You stay here. I won't be long," he told him, speaking slowly.

d'Artagnan's face creased in confusion so he repeated himself. d'Artagnan followed his lips carefully and suddenly got it. A look of desolation crossed his face, and he shut his eyes for a moment, turning his head away from Athos, biting his lower lip fiercely. Athos watched him struggle to regain control then turn his head back, giving a small nod of agreement. "Go. I'll be here." He managed a feeble smile. "Not going anywhere." His voice sounded weak and a bubble of red spit leaked from his mouth as he struggled unsuccessfully to contain a bout of coughing which left him gasping for breath and folding one bloodied hand over his stomach, the other bracing himself on the rock. Athos planted both hands on his shoulders and held him, cursing under his breath at his inability to do more to help him.

Once he'd stopped coughing Athos tried to settle him, pulling his own shredded doublet off and laying it over d'Artagnan in an attempt to keep him warm, then stood with difficulty, leaning on the rock face for a moment, blinking as everything went dim around him for a moment. Then he told d'Artagnan he wouldn't be long, trying for an optimistic tone he knew neither of them believed, and started to shamble away down the mountainside.

He managed ten paces before the urge to look back became too strong.

He told himself he was just checking that the wounded man was resting comfortably but he knew it was fear that dragged his eyes back: fear that his friend would die while his back was turned.

How long would it take him to get help? If the French forces had been defeated and returned to their camp, it could take him hours to reach them. Assuming he didn't collapse from blood-loss on the way.

He didn't think d'Artagnan had hours.

* * *

d'Artagnan sensed warmth by his side, and opened his eyes to find Athos settling back down beside him. "That was quick."

As jokes go it was weak, made more so by the feebleness of his voice, but Athos' eyes relaxed into a warm smile. "Decided to stay with you. Let Porthos do some work for once. He'll find us soon enough."

d'Artagnan's face creased as he tried to follow, and Athos rolled laboriously to his knees so d'Artagnan could see his face more easily, and repeated himself until d'Artagnan got it – which was obvious from the frown on his face when he worked it out. "You need to go."

"I'm fine here."

"Athos – "

"Save your breath. I'm not leaving you."

"Y-you are – "

"Staying right here." Athos was implacable and the argument was clearly tiring the younger man. "We just have to wait. They'll be here soon."

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes, with obvious effort. "You can leave me. I am not dying."

Good argument. Athos mentally saluted him; he was hardly going to contradict him by telling him this was exactly what he was afraid of.

d'Artagnan seemed to be able to read his Captain's face. "I promise. Not ... planning ... to die ... today."

His breathing was becoming shallow, his neck muscles corded as he strained to pull air into his battered lungs. Fear flooded Athos' body and he realised he was gripping d'Artagnan's shoulders fiercely. He forced himself to relax his fingers. d'Artagnan's eyes were locked on his and he saw naked fear there, battling with pain and panic. And something else. Trust.

Athos' gut twisted again. Somehow the knowledge of that trust scared him more than the possibility that d'Artagnan was dying. What if he couldn't help him? What if the next breath d'Artagnan took was his last? And Athos was just watching, completely bloody helpless, as the light faded from those huge dark eyes?

He suddenly realised those eyes were sliding away, the eyelids blinking more and more slowly, and panic flooded him. "No! d'Artagnan! You don't get to die here! You have given your word!"

The eyelids closed and he found himself shouting urgently. "d'Artagnan!"

He remembered, belatedly, that the lad couldn't hear him and before he knew what he was doing he'd slapped him, hard, across the face. The Gascon's head lolled to the side and for a horrible moment he wondered if he'd just slapped a dead man. He was already reaching out to touch the same cheek he'd just hit when the eyes slid open again and d'Artagnan turned his head laboriously, found Athos' outstretched hand there and leaned into his touch, eyes closing again.

Athos didn't know what to do. He was d'Artagnan's Captain, his elder, his mentor. But he was also his friend and his brother and he was rooted to the spot. Fear and panic were crashing in around his head as his hand curled protectively around d'Artagnan's soot-grimed, bloody cheek, watching the laboured breaths whistling from his mouth.

Feeling like a man drowning in quicksand, he mentally grabbed the first coherent thought that flitted through his brain and hung on to it for dear life. Aramis. What will Aramis say when he tells him how he lost d'Artagnan on this bare mountainside? He couldn't imagine that conversation; didn't want to. Aramis would be furious if he hadn't done everything he could, he thought.

Something about shock, and blood loss, drifted into his mind and before he knew it he was pulling d'Artagnan towards him. He had to help the heart to work – that valiant, doesn't-know-when-he's-beaten heart – to pump whatever blood was left in his body more easily. He got d'Artagnan lying on his back again, head first down the slope, and bent his legs at the knees, tipping them to the side so the rocks propped them in place. Not knowing what else he could do, Athos sank to the ground beside the Gascon's body, positioned himself alongside, careful to avoid the metal embedded in his side, and wrap his arms around the lax body. He told himself he was keeping him warm, which was good for shock according to the Aramis in his head, but he wondered whether he just didn't want d'Artagnan to die without feeling human warmth and love. He knew he was probably not the best person to give that comforting touch, but he was the only person here so to hell with it.

* * *

He didn't know how long they lay like that; he only knew that time was passing. He didn't think he slept. His chest felt as if it were on fire and the deep ache in his forearm stopped him from sinking into oblivion but for once he was grateful for the pain. He didn't want to be asleep when – no, if - d'Artagnan needed him. He refused to articulate precisely what that need might be.

He didn't pray, not formally, but he thought constantly of Porthos, willing him to know, somehow, that they were alive and needed him, desperate to see that familiar outline shambling into view, bringing his own brand of fierce comfort and hope with him.

And he thought of Aramis too, and wondered if their missing brother might sense when they were in trouble. Selfishly he hoped he would, then laughed quietly at his hypocrisy. He was too bitter and stubborn himself to pray (though he knew it was the Church, not God, with whom he was angry for it was the Church who interpreted God's laws and made the aristocracy responsible for carrying out his will) and yet he was happy to entertain the notion of Aramis being tormented with visions of his brothers at war so that he could pray for them.

Mentally he tried to substitute an image of Aramis lying peacefully asleep, cocooned in a blanket in a simple cell, bible on his table... and gave up. He just couldn't see Aramis gliding silently around a chapel, eyes downcast, obedient to the will of God and the Abbé. Aramis was vitality, head flung back in laughter, barking laughter, teasing smiles, arm flung around a shoulder, twinkling eyes recounting a battle. Aramis was a tongue pushing the corner of his mouth as he threaded a needle, corded forearms working delicately over a wound, bloodied hand shoving curls out of his eyes. Aramis was fickle and passionate, silver-tongued and annoying and brilliant.

He bloody missed him.

And he was not going to ride to Douai at the end of the war and tell him d'Artagnan had died alone on a dark hillside – for it was fully dark now – while he went for help.

He could feel cold air rolling down the hillside, but the side that was pressed against d'Artagnan was warm, and he couldn't bring himself to move, so he knew instantly when d'Artagnan came slowly back to consciousness.

d'Artagnan rolled his head towards Athos and his eyes flickered open. He looked confused for a moment until his brain had processed their new position, then he smiled. "Thanks," he breathed.

"What for?"

d'Artagnan's eyes fasten on his and he took a moment to answer. Athos remembered that he was lip-reading in the dark, and repeated the question.

"For staying... Sorry."

"What for?" Athos asked for a third time.

"Everything." d'Artagnan mumbled and his eyes closed again, and Athos felt a moment of panic, quickly pushed aside in favour of fury. He would not let him die, and certainly not with the thought that he'd got anything to apologise for.

He gripped d'Artagnan's jaw none-too-gently and turned his head, seeing with relief the eyes flicker open again. "You have _nothing_ to apologise for!" he hissed. Then added, fiercely: "Unless you bloody die on me. You'll bloody well have to haunt me to apologise for that, do you hear?" He saw d'Artagnan blink, then the face twisted and for a ghastly second he thought it was a death-grimace. Then he realised it was a smile, or a parody of one, and he relaxed his grip slightly, his own features softening in relief. d'Artagnan may not have understood every word but he'd clearly got the message.

d'Artagnan whispered something and he'd missed it, so he leaned closer. d'Artagnan repeated himself indistinctly, something about having a busy time apologising to him and Constance and Porthos and Aramis and Tréville... and suddenly his eyes were sparkling again, as if mumbling the names of everyone he loved had pulled him back from the brink.

He touched d'Artagnan's cheek again, and the eyes fastened on his. "Best if you don't die today, then," Athos told him clearly, and was rewarded with another tiny smile. He nodded, and said it again, believing it more this time. "You don't die today, d'Artagnan." He couldn't stop himself now. "Not here, not on this hillside, do you hear me? You fight it, fight for life, dammit. Don't you _ever_ give up on me ..." He was gripping him by the shoulders again, almost shaking him with the ferocity of his determination that this precious man would stay with him, so he almost missed it when d'Artagnan nodded shakily and whispered something. "What?"

d'Artagnan repeated it carefully, painfully, each word carried on its own tiny breath. "I'll ... do ... my best."

Athos blinked the hot grit from his eyes and cleared his throat. Worry and relief battled for supremacy but his voice was calm as he answered "Damn right. Now shut up and let me get you warm, then I'll scout for a path down the hill..." d'Artagnan's eyes closed again and Athos stopped, then finished to himself: "I'll find a way, _mon ami_. I promise you." He lay close to d'Artagnan, so close that he could feel every slow breath and every tremor of pain. He draped a leg carefully over d'Artagnan's legs and put his hand on d'Artagnan's chest, high up so he was not restricting his breathing, and shut his own eyes. Five minutes rest, he told himself, five more minutes until d'Artagnan's trembling slowed and then he would find a path down the hill and get help.

* * *

There was a light bobbing around below him and he was not sure how that was possible. He blinked and squinted, catching sight of the body nestling partly under his own. d'Artagnan! He felt clumsily for a pulse, catching his breath at the pain spiking up as he moved, but he could feel the Gascon's heartbeat and right now that was all he cared about.

He raised his head and found the light was much closer, and then spotted feet moving underneath it, and the world suddenly sorted itself out and he realised he was lying face down the slope, watching someone pick a path towards him. Before he had time to wonder through the fog in his brain whether it was friend or foe, there was a shout, and the light suddenly lurched crazily as the feet underneath it started to run, leaping madly in the pool of flickering light, and more voices answered from a distance, and he started to push himself to his feet, once again fumbling fruitlessly for a weapon and trying not to pitch head first into the ground as pain lanced up both arms and met in the middle of his chest in a fiery ball, and he gasped, and then someone was there, arms wrapped around him, holding him up and calling his name.

Porthos.

Porthos was here!

Athos heard himself whisper Porthos' name and then everything faded.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Readers who have not posted their own stories may wonder why it takes us so long to get the chapters up, especially when we swear we've already drafted them. I know I did, before I tried it for myself. Well, one thing is fear: that I'll have missed an apostrophe or a tense change, or just forgotten to transfer a vital plot point from my head into words, so I draft, then rewrite, then tidy up, then load into fanfic and check again before hitting the "post" button. Then there's you guys, with your speculation and enjoyment and logical brains, who frequently raise questions I've not thought of, so I have to tweak and add... And finally there is the mystery of technology. So I originally wrote this chapter in the present tense, then decided it didn't work here and changed it to the more usual story-telling past tense. In doing so I deleted a couple of paragraphs that I thought were repetitive. Saved it, opened Fanfic, uploaded my word document ready for final edit... and suddenly came across those deleted paragraphs. They stood out as they were still in the original present tense. Cue frantic searching of laptop, thinking I'd uploaded a different version but no, I only have one version saved and those paragraphs are not there. So it seems Word has a phantom earlier version of this chapter hidden beneath the one I've saved. And Fanfic has found those paragraphs and decided they are good enough, after all, to appear! So I've thrown my hands up and handed power to Word and Fanfic, who seem to know better than me._


	20. There's A Soul

_Warning: death of an OC, but it's off-stage, so to speak._

 **Chapter 18: There's A Soul**

Porthos almost missed them, huddled as they were in the shadows of the rock face sheltering them. It was hard enough to see his feet and pick a path, and the torch was spluttering and sending oily smoke into his face, making him squint and curse as he clambered relentlessly up, calling their names. He felt a lurch of fear every time he called d'Artagnan's name but he refused to acknowledge that he was dead until he saw his body for himself, so he called both names until he was hoarse. He stopped to take a sip of water, sweat running down his face even in the chill air on this god-forsaken mountainside with its crumbling rock and bloody boulders and – what was that? Did something move in those shadows ahead? He swung the torch that way but could see nothing beyond the guttering flame, so he held it high and headed towards the shadows, and as he got closer he could see – _Mon Dieu_! Two bodies, lying so close he couldn't separate them with his eyes.

He stopped dead, icy fear clenching his gut, bile rising in his throat, heart pounding so hard he thought it would burst out of his chest. Without conscious thought he started to run towards them, breath coming in sobs now as he found himself saying "no, no, no" over and over under his breath. They couldn't be dead! After all this time searching, knowing it was probably fruitless but refusing to give up hope, he couldn't believe God would be so cruel as to take them both like this, flinging their bodies carelessly down as if they didn't matter, leaving them crumpled on this bare hillside...

A stray thought sinewed its way through his churning mind as he hurtled towards them. They were a long way from the platform from which they'd fallen. How had they ended up this far down? Hope flickered, then surged as he saw one shape move and a head emerge from the dancing shadows. He would know the shape of that head anywhere. He bellowed the name: "ATHOS!" and hurled himself over the rock and debris, screaming over his shoulder to whoever might be in earshot that he'd found them, he needed help, get here now!

And then he was kneeling at Athos' side, hand sliding under his shoulders, trying to sit him upright, torch flung forgotten to the ground, flame sputtering and dying, but he didn't care because Athos was alive, his head cradled to his chest.

He ghosted his hands over Athos' chest, hearing him whispering and shushing him, information flooding into his stuttering brain. Blood on his chest. He's been shot, Porthos realised, feeling frantically for an exit wound and sighing in relief when he found it. Athos whispering that d'Artagnan was alive but badly injured. Lleaning over Athos to touch d'Artagnan's cheek tentatively, the only bit he could reach without moving Athos. Cold! His skin was cold, and clammy. Fear gripping him anew, but then d'Artagnan's head moved slightly, turning towards him, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark he saw d'Artagnan's eyes flicker open for a second.

He turned and bellowed for help again, hearing answering shouts, much closer now, then seeing a glow of torchlight round a shoulder of rock and bob towards him, another one close behind.

"They're here" he told Athos, belatedly remembering that he could talk to them, these brothers that he'd lost, in his head, hours earlier. They were still here and he could talk to them, tell them what they meant to him... but other hands were here now, torchlight flickering over the scene, and he lost all power of speech when he saw for the first time the state they were both in.

There was no time for rejoicing, or heartfelt reunions. Willing hands took Athos from him, picking him up as if he weighed nothing, and then Etienne arrived, puffing but still snapping out orders. Porthos got out of the way then, feeling suddenly lost now he'd done what he'd sworn to do.

He picked up a discarded torch and saw four men disappearing back down the track carrying Athos. A hand squeezed his arm and he saw Santerre was there, holding a torch high for Etienne to examine the silent Gascon and looking at Porthos with compassionate eyes, telling him it would be alright. Porthos wasn't at all sure anything would be alright but he nodded, because that was what Santerre was expecting, and was rewarded with a smile. He wondered why Santerre was even helping the Musketeers, but then he remembered d'Artagnan had stepping in to cover for a few of the Picardy regiment when they almost rebelled against Colombe, what seemed like weeks ago now, but was actually only two nights earlier... and finally the stream of random thoughts stilled because his face was flooded with tears as he faced, for the first time, the possibility that he would still lose d'Artagnan for good, maybe here on this mountainside, or after a few hours of agony in the medical tent.

Etienne had ripped his shirt open and Porthos saw him recoil from the mess of burned and torn flesh revealed in the flickering torch light. Now he was working frantically to pad the wound in his side, and another high on his chest that looked like he'd been shot. Etienne called for help to carry him down, and Porthos watched numbly as they lifted him, seeing his head flop to the side and one blackened hand dangle until Etienne caught it up. He couldn't seem to move and it took Santerre nudging him, then pulling at his arm, to make him stir. "Come on, Porthos. They need you. Porthos!" And finally the big man pulled himself together and moved off, edging past the others at the first opportunity and giving himself the role of pathfinder so he didn't have to look at d'Artagnan's ruined body as they descended.

Back at their temporary camp there was already a mad flurry of bobbing torches and shouted orders as a cart was brought up to the fire and padded with every blanket and spare clothing they could find. They were loading Athos as Porthos arrived and he was grateful to see the man was conscious again, his face twisted with pain but clearly alert and looking over to where the second team struggled down the slope behind Porthos, trying to carry d'Artagnan at speed without causing him further harm.

They laid d'Artagnan carefully on the wagon, and Etienne scrambled up alongside Julien in the back and yelled at them to get going. Men scrambled to lead the way, holding torches aloft so the driver could pick the smoothest path back towards their camp, but as they reached the head of the valley where they'd defeated the Spanish in the morning – no, yesterday morning, Porthos corrected himself absently – Etienne shouted for them to stop, swearing under his breath as he checked d'Artagnan. Everything stilled for a moment and Porthos felt as if the whole world held its breath.

Then Etienne exhaled noisily and called Porthos closer. He walked unsteadily towards the cart, dreading the words he was sure were coming, thinking that he would remember this moment for the rest of his life: the smell of the tar from the torches, the sound of the sputtering flames and the horses playing impatiently with their bits, the touch of the freezing night air on his face.

But Etienne was asking him about the fortress and whether he'd seen medical supplies in any of the rooms there, and slowly the world cranked back into life again. He let his eyes slide towards d'Artagnan's face for the first time since he'd found them and saw, with a shock, that the dark eyes were open and seemed to be watching him. He broke off from answering Etienne and reached out a hand. "Is he...?"

Etienne snapped at him. "Yes he bloody is, but not for long unless I find somewhere I can work on him. Pull yourself together man: is there a clean room we can use?" And Porthos nodded, and got his weary legs going again, and led the way up the valley, through the previous day's battlefield, in search of somewhere they could use as a field hospital to try to save the lives of these two precious men.

They took over a bedchamber that had clearly been used by a senior officer. They found clean linens for the bed and laid d'Artagnan on it. Two men dragged a second bed in for Athos and others ran to set fires and heat water. Julien arrived clutching a bag bulging with potions and bandages and handed out supplies to Etienne before starting work on Athos. For a while the two medics worked feverishly side by side, comparing notes and issuing terse instructions to the willing hands helping them. Julien made Athos comfortable quite quickly, cleaning the wound in his chest as best he could in the uncertain light, washing it with copious amounts of medical spirits, then slathering a thick paste onto a pad and bandaging everything in place. Athos bore everything stoically and remembered to tell Julien that his left arm was probably broken, but he barely noticed as Julien strapped it firmly, so focussed was he on d'Artagnan's motionless body in the other bed, and the battle to save his life.

Porthos couldn't look at the battered body, but nor could he move away no matter how many times Etienne snapped at him for being in the way. He found a place at d'Artagnan's head and sat stroking his filthy, blood-matted hair, praying harder than he'd ever prayed before in his life.

* * *

d'Artagnan missed all the drama. He'd lost too much blood, and the shock of the explosion, combined with the pain from his wounds, rendered him unconscious for most of the next twenty four hours without any need for narcotics. He missed Etienne cleaning and stitching the deep gouge in his thigh where shards of metal had ripped through his thigh muscle. He missed Etienne's muttering as he pulled countless fragments of metal from cuts all over his body, and Julien patiently cleaning and covering the burns that marred the left side of his face and body. He missed the long conference as they tried to work out how to extract the metal shrapnel which had buried itself in his rib cage, and the fuss as Athos insisted on sitting upright to hold d'Artagnan's hand before they started to enlarge the wound around the metal so they could see what was going on.

He didn't miss the actual extraction: his agonised howl when Etienne laid hands on the metal was something that would stay with all of them for a long time, and his eyes, flickering frantically around their faces, spoke volumes about his pain and panic as Etienne struggled to extract the three-inch fragment. He might not have heard Etienne's impressive string of swear words which lasted – without repetition, Porthos related later in a tone of awe to those waiting anxiously outside – for several long minutes but he certainly felt the horrible sensation as the alien shrapnel came out with a gush of blood.

d'Artagnan had found Athos's face by then, and fastened his eyes desperately on his mentor until he lost consciousness again. Blood loss, Etienne informed them briskly as Julien struggled to control the bleeding. The burning metal shard had effectively cauterised the wound as it penetrated, he told them, which had undoubtedly saved d'Artagnan's life, otherwise the wound would have bled freely and he would have died before they found him.

He missed another long conference as the two medics probed the wound, finding splinters of rib bone which clearly worried them both. The metal had shattered one of his ribs and they had to remove the loose fragments and try to realign the remains before stitching the layers of muscle and tissue back in place as best they could. He also, thankfully, missed the ten minutes cleaning and stitching the wound on his shoulder after extracting the musket ball which had come to rest there after passing right through Athos.

It was four hours before they had done all they could for him. Etienne took a long pull at the Spanish wine someone had uncovered in a storeroom before washing his hands and leaving with a small escort, weaving with exhaustion but anxious to check on his other patients, particularly Fouchard whose burns were extensive.

Julien stayed, insisting that Athos got some proper rest and tasking Porthos with watching over them both. He was concerned about the big man, who had been relentless both in the long battle to take the fortress, and in his efforts to find the missing men afterwards, but Athos had lost a lot of blood and desperately needed sleep.

Emerging from the temporary sick-room, Julien looked around and found half a dozen men slumped in the corridor, all looking just as exhausted as those in the room behind him. Sighing, he reminded himself that although he'd also been on the go for over 24 hours, he'd been behind the lines, not fighting for his life on the battlefield, and decided the least he could do for the rest of the men would be to organise some food.

* * *

Etienne returned a few hours after dawn with horses and a special guest in tow: General Faucille. The General had already delivered a rousing speech to the main camp, now relocated close to the captured fortress, praising them for their efforts in securing a famous victory against the Spanish, but he was acutely aware that some of the main heroes of the battle were not there to hear his words, so he'd insisted on making the journey back up the valley.

He came in without fuss, telling the exhausted helpers to stay resting and stopping to chat to those he recognised before entering the sick room quietly behind Etienne, who lost no time checking d'Artagnan's bandages and catching up with Julien.

They'd washed the grime from his face but he looked almost worse as this revealed the true extent of the burned skin running down his left side, from his cheek to his thigh. Julien had covered the worst patches with a thick ointment which he hoped would help protect the weeping flesh from infection. There was a thick bandage wrapped around d'Artagnan's slim waist, which was stained with the blood that continued to weep from the wound in his side, and another thick pad over his left thigh where they'd found another deep wound gouged in the explosion. He look pale, his skin almost translucent, and a light sheen of sweat coated his face and chest.

General Faucille had a quiet word with the medics, stood looking at d'Artagnan for a moment and then came over to where Porthos was snoring in the chair next to Athos' bed. A smile tweaked at the corners of his mouth as he regarded the big Musketeer who had so ably led the main assault on the fortress. He seemed relatively unscathed, with just some small cuts on his jaw and forearms to show for his efforts, but in sleep the exhaustion they all felt showed clearly on his face. And something else: his worry for his brothers meant he sat awkwardly with his head tipped to his shoulder, one hand resting on Athos' chest.

The General turned to Athos, who was propped up on the bed to take the pressure off the wounds on his back and front. He was awake, watching the General as he approached the bed.

"Athos, how are you?"

Before answering Athos glanced to his right where d'Artagnan lay so still, and the General got the impression that his answer depended entirely on how the young Musketeer fared.

"I'm a bit sore, but glad to be here," admitted Athos with unusual honesty.

"May I?" With Athos' answering nod the General sat cautiously on the edge of the bed and looked at Athos assessingly. "How bad is it?"

Etienne answered in his usual blunt fashion. "No fighting for a month at least. Forearm's busted, serious chest wound and his back's mangled too. Sorry General."

Athos gave a decent approximation of the stare that had recruits trembling in the ranks, but Etienne simply nodded at him and wandered off in search of food, patting d'Artagnan's foot in passing.

There was a pause, broken only by a loud snore from Porthos. Without looking, Athos reached over and poked him gently in the ribs, and he stopped with a snort, mumbled indistinctly and resettled himself without waking.

Athos found the General watching him carefully. "Sir?"

The General nodded to himself, as if making a decision reluctantly. "We've received orders from Paris. We're to send reinforcements north as soon as this area is secured." He paused, watching Athos.

"North?" he queried.

"Towards Frieburg."

The north east border with the Spanish Netherlands, where – rumour had it – the fighting was becoming even more intense, with the Spanish pushing deep into French territory and sending tremors through Parisian society. It made sense to send the southern veterans north, Athos conceded, even as his stomach constricted at the implications for the three of them. He glanced again to his right and grimaced as the movement pulled on the stitches in his shoulder.

"How many men are you sending?" he asked, neutrally.

The General smiled. "I'll take four regiments north. I'm splitting the Musketeers, Athos. The fight here in the south is almost over, but I'll need some of your men to stay here to help with the patrols and train the new recruits when they arrive. I'll take the rest of you with me."

"The Captain's not fit to travel, Sir," interrupted Julien, looking nervous but firm; not normally involved in the strategic meetings, nonetheless he was the only medic in the room and he was ready to protect his patients.

"I understand," agreed the General peaceably. "Athos, I'd like you to stay here with the other men who are unfit to travel, then bring them north to join us in a few weeks when you are ready."

Athos let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding, and nodded his agreement. This gave him license to stay with d'Artagnan until he recovered. He didn't allow himself to think of the alternative outcome.

"Good." The General rose decisively, hesitated, then put both hands out, waiting for Athos to decide which of his injured arms he could move with the least pain. They clasped hands awkwardly and the General stooped closer. "Tell your men I am honoured to have served with them both. You are a credit to your regiment, all of you."

Before Athos could think of a response, the General had turned to leave. "Do not tarry, Athos. We need men of your calibre with us."

Athos was surprised at the level of regret he felt watching the General leave. He was the only commanding officer, since Tréville, whose leadership, judgement, and strategic thinking Athos could really look up to. For the first time in a long while, and in spite of his injuries and his fears for d'Artagnan, Athos felt a stirring of passion about this war. He would get fit; he would make sure his injured men got the best possible treatment, and he would reunite with his men in the north, ready to protect Paris.

His thoughts drifted to the Garrison, to Tréville, and to Constance, even as his eyes went back to the restless Gascon beside him. He couldn't leave here without him; his life wouldn't be worth living – assuming he survived the war, himself – if he came back to Paris without d'Artagnan. Or Porthos, for that matter, suppressing a smile as the snoring started up again. Feeling his own eyes grow heavy, he allowed himself to settle to sleep, feeling oddly comforted by the resolutions he had just made.

* * *

d'Artagnan hovered between life and death for four long days. His wounds wept infection and they had to reopen and clean out each one several times. He tossed and thrashed constantly, his body slicked in sweat, and Porthos and Julien battled to keep his skin cool as his temperature soared. Sometimes he seemed aware of his surroundings and in those moments Athos and Porthos sought to reassure him, to touch him and encourage him. Even though he still couldn't hear their voices he would fasten his dark eyes on their faces, struggling to make sense of their words. His eyes looked huge in his gaunt face and Athos didn't know which was worse: seeing the pain and fear in his expression as he watched them intently, or seeing his dull eyes slide closed as the infection took hold again.

By the fifth day Athos was mobile himself, refusing to wear a sling ("Which bloody arm do you suggest I wear it on, Julien? This one?" – waving his sword arm with an effort because of the wound high on his chest and the heavy bandages protecting it – "or this one?" – gesturing with his broken left arm – "Or maybe you'd like me to wear a sling on both arms? Perhaps you could explain to me how that would work? You might as well just tie me to the bed and be done with it!"); displaying his exhaustion and pain in every muttered curse and scathing glance.

Porthos was a rock, as usual, smoothing ruffled feathers and distracting Athos from his pain and anxiety by helping plan the best route north, making lists of supplies, and, on the fifth day when d'Artagnan's fever finally broke leaving him limp and exhausted but sleeping deeply for the first time since the battle, accompanying Athos back to the main French camp to visit the remains of the musketeer regiment, including the rest of the wounded.

It was here that they were given the devastating news that Fouchard had succumbed to his injuries and died, mere hours before they arrived in camp. Athos had been almost bowled over, staggering slightly on feeble legs as he tried to take it in. The young man who'd basically adopted Athos when d'Artagnan was captured; who'd stood by him through every setback; who'd quietly looked after his kit, his tent, made sure he ate and slept, and stoically borne every bad mood with steadfast loyalty; the man for whom d'Artagnan had nearly sacrificed his own life in order to protect him from the cannon's blast: how could he be dead?

Porthos steered him into a chair and fetched him a cup of wine which he pushed away irritably. "What happened?" he asked Etienne in a controlled voice.

Etienne glared at him. "He was bloody ripped to shreds, that's what happened!" he snapped. "Never really stood a chance..."

"I know that," Athos interrupted, keeping his own voice even with an effort. "I saw him, remember? I meant – did he regain consciousness? Was he in pain?"

Etienne shoved a hand through his chaotic hair and sagged onto an empty bed. "Sorry. I –" He stopped and swallowed, looking every one of his fifty-odd years. "I'm gonna miss that boy." He sighed, then raised his grey eyes to Athos' green ones and smiled. "He asked after d'Artagnan, you know. Early on, before the infection took 'im. He was dosed up to the eyes so I don't think he felt much pain but even so he remembered d'Artagnan trying to warn 'im. Cried with relief when I told him the lad had survived as well." He stopped, hearing the irony of his words knowing that Fouchard himself had not, in the end, survived. Then he shook himself. "Gave me a message for you. Said you should sleep more and trust others to help you."

Athos felt tears prickle at the back of his eyes and he looked away, blowing his cheeks out. Porthos' warm hand squeezed the back of his neck and for a moment he leaned back, accepting the comfort offered. Porthos dropped his other arm across Athos' chest and pulled him back into a firm hug, and Athos let him, knowing Porthos needed to receive the physical comfort as much as to give it.

The remaining musketeers had already prepared Fouchard's grave so Porthos and Athos stood and watched as the body was lowered into the hole, and Athos tried to find some words. He managed to speak of Fouchard's loyalty and irrepressible optimism before his words reminded him of d'Artagnan, still struggling for life in the Spanish fortress, and he choked up. Porthos looked around, saw grief on everyone's faces and stepped forward, twisting his hat in his broad hands but speaking with calm authority.

"Fouchard was one of the best. 'e was a raw nervous youngster when 'e arrived, but 'e learned from the best of us an' 'e died doin' what 'e loved. I'm proud of 'im and what 'e became, an' I'll tell 'is parents that when we get back to Paris. Which we will, soon, once we've made our borders safe, right?"

There was a chorus of 'ayes' and nods as the men replaced their hats and dispersed slowly. It was a sad truth that they had buried far too many good friends to let one more death affect them too overtly, no matter how popular or loved he was. Porthos shivered at the thought and took comfort in those who still lived, wrapping an arm around Athos' shoulders and steering him gently back towards the main camp.

"They're moving camp tomorrow," Athos told him suddenly. Etienne had given him the news while Porthos had been talking to Guérin, who was recovering now his head had finally stopped hurting.

"Tomorrow?" Porthos stopped dead. "d'Artagnan's not fit to move yet, won't be for days!"

"Weeks, more like," Athos grunted, turning to face Porthos. "We'll have to find somewhere he can recuperate."

Porthos' face creased in incomprehension. "What do you mean? He'll be comin' with us!"

Athos shook his head. "We'll be working our way along the southern border until replacements arrive, mopping up the Spanish stragglers, sleeping rough then moving on. We probably won't have a base camp for a while. d'Artagnan is barely conscious still; he needs proper rest."

"So what are you sayin'?"

"We'll have to find somewhere – someone – to take him in for a few weeks, until he's fit enough to join us. Hopefully before we have to travel north."

* * *

They took a long detour on the way back the fortress, but eventually arrived back at dusk to find d'Artagnan being spoon-fed a thin broth by Julien. His eyes lit up as they entered and he raised a hand in greeting.

"That's the most you've moved in days!" Porthos plonked down on the end of his bed. "So, 'ow're you feelin' then?"

d'Artagnan's face creased as he tried to follow. " _Merde_ , I keep forgettin'!" Porthos tutted. "Sorry lad." He turned to face him square on and repeated himself more slowly.

d'Artagnan's face cleared as he got the gist. "Julien says I'll live." He smiled, but kept watching anxiously, seeing the exhaustion on their faces.

Athos exhaled noisily as he lowered himself gingerly into a chair. His arm was aching and his chest was hurting abominably. He shut his eyes for a moment until everything settled again, aware of warring emotions – relief, at hearing d'Artagnan's voice after the days of fever-ridden silence – and dread at the thought of the conversation ahead.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan sounded uneasy and he opened his eyes with an effort of will.

"Sorry. Bit tired. How are you?"

d'Artagnan squinted; the dim candlelight did nothing to help him decipher words. Julien had assured him his hearing would probably return once the damage to his inner ears healed, but meanwhile he was lost in a frightening silence.

Porthos nudged his foot, waited until the dark eyes had swung towards him, then told him slowly that Athos's shoulder was healing well, he was back to his normal exhausted grumpy self, and he wanted to know how d'Artagnan was. He was rewarded with a small grin as d'Artagnan dropped his head back to his pillows.

"Tired as well. And I can't sit up yet so I have to be spoonfed." He glanced back at Athos, flapping his hand exasperatedly.

"You've got a bloody hole in your ribs, and another in your shoulder. You won't be sitting, or walking, for quite a while." The words came out more abruptly than Athos had intended, and d'Artagnan blinked. He'd only understand a few words but the look on Athos' face was enough to send his stomach plummeting.

"What's happening?" He looked quickly between them, seeing the tension on both their faces. "How long are we staying here? I'm sure I could ride in a day or two, if we're moving on."

Athos glanced at Julien who shifted uncomfortably. "Sorry Athos. He saw us packing up the supplies."

Athos sighed. "You got orders too?"

"Yes, came soon after you and Porthos left. We're all moving north tomorrow."

Athos nodded, then looked back at d'Artagnan. "You're lucky to be alive, d'Artagnan. I'm not risking your recovery by dragging you from camp to camp. We'll be sleeping rough most of the time and you're barely over the infection." He paused to make sure d'Artagnan understood. The Gascon looked from him to Porthos, seeing the same expressions of regret and sympathy on both faces. He shut his eyes and turned his head away, fighting his emotions. He felt ridiculously close to tears at the thought of being separated, of having to watch them ride away, of being left – of being useless, written off... He flinched as something touched his cheek and flipped his eyes open – to find Athos squatting awkwardly beside his bed, turning his jaw with gentle fingers to face him so he could go on speaking.

"I promise – I _promise_ " he emphasised slowly, his eyes locked on d'Artagnan's – "that we will come back for you." He waited until d'Artagnan gave him a shaky nod of understanding. "We're taking you to a village near here tomorrow. I've spoken to the priest and there's a herbs-woman there who's agreed to look after you. We'll be fighting within a few leagues so we will visit you if we can, and as soon as you are fit, we will travel north together, with the rest of those who are still recovering, and join the rest of the regiment on the northern border."

d'Artagnan nodded his agreement as he got the gist, but the tension on Athos' face did not ease and he sensed there was more to come. They'd been visiting the injured, and a cold dread gripped him as he asked: "Fouchard? Is he – how is he?"

Athos flinched and dropped his eyes. d'Artagnan didn't need to hear the words of regret which came stumbling from his lips: his captain's expression told him the answer. He closed his own eyes, effectively shutting everything and everyone out as a wave of regret flooded his body. He felt a visceral pain in his stomach and for a moment he couldn't breathe. Fouchard, dead?

Suddenly hoping he'd misunderstood he opened his eyes again and searched their faces, desperately hoping he'd got it wrong. But Porthos was standing up and coming round to where Athos was now slumped against the wall, rubbing fiercely at his temples, and when he saw d'Artagnan looking he shook his head slowly, coming to crouch next to Athos and put a comforting hand on both shoulders.

"When?" whispered d'Artagnan, desperately trying to take it in. He'd been with Fouchard since the beginning, when they were both youngsters in their first campaigns, often set to work together by the more senior musketeers. d'Artagnan had helped Fouchard improve his riding skills, and in turn Fouchard had been beside d'Artagnan every time he faltered, keeping him grounded with his unswerving loyalty and optimism. How could he be dead?

He knew it was stupid to have hoped his friend would survive. He'd seen him in the moments after the explosion as he struggled feebly under d'Artagnan's body. He'd rolled off him to let him breathe, then lay unable to move himself as he felt the piece of metal shift in his side. He'd drifted in and out of consciousness ever since and now, almost a week later, it was hard to be sure what was real and what was a fever-ridden dream, but he thought he remembered Fouchard moving his hand towards d'Artagnan, trying to reach him and comfort him. He'd questioned Julien as soon as he could stay awake long enough to 'hear' the answer, and had dared to hope after hearing he was still alive and in Etienne's care back at camp.

Athos was speaking and he tried to concentrate but his face looked blurry, and d'Artagnan realised his eyes were brimming with tears. Furious with himself he interrupted Athos. "How is he dead and I'm alive, Athos?" There was a silence as d'Artagnan looked around fiercely. "I don't understand. I was on top of him - _I_ should be dead, not him!"

Julien cleared his throat and answered tentatively, knowing neither of the others had an answer. "It's speculation, d'Artagnan, but we – Etienne and I – thought if you were in the air when the explosion hit, because you were throwing yourself at Fouchard, your body offered less resistance so the force didn't damage you so much. Fouchard was standing right next to it, wasn't he? You protected him from the worst of the flying metal as you landed on him, but his body had already taken the impact from the explosion. But really it's impossible to say without being there. And, to be honest, how does it help, to know? It's a miracle that either of you survived." He paused, seeing d'Artagnan watching him intently as he tried to follow, but then the Gascon's head drooped and Julien looked despairingly first at Porthos, then Athos.

d'Artagnan picked out a few words – 'air', 'resistance', 'impact' – and tried to fill in the blanks but then he made out the word 'miracle' and a feeling of anguish threatened to swamp him. Miracle? Fouchard was dead, what kind of miracle was that? And what good was it to anyone that _he_ had survived? He was so weak he could not stand on his own, he couldn't hear... Every failure, every weakness, every fear that he was not good enough was rattling around in his skull and his struggle to contain his emotions seemed like the final condemnation of his lack of worth.

Then Porthos loomed beside him, plonking himself on the bed and turning d'Artagnan's chin towards him. "He asked after you. Etienne told us." d'Artagnan tried to turn his head away, a tear spilling slowly down one cheek, but Porthos stopped him with gentle fingers. "Etienne told 'im you survived and were goin' to live. Said pretty much the last words 'e spoke were to thank God that you lived. d'Artagnan, 'e knew what you had tried to do for 'im, and 'e was grateful. 'e died at peace because _you_ still live. Don't – don't throw that away, lad."

d'Artagnan's emotions overwhelmed him in earnest as he deciphered Porthos' words, and Porthos looked close to tears himself as he tried to work out how to hug d'Artagnan without hurting him. He settled for laying a hand on his head and smoothing his hair as he had done when they first brought d'Artagnan here from the mountainside.

Athos watched, unblinking, from his uncomfortable seat on the floor, keeping his hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. He had a good idea what might be going through d'Artagnan's mind, and was at a loss as to how to reassure him but he himself was exhausted, with waves of pain rolling through him, and he could do little other than watch as Porthos sat with d'Artagnan, talking quietly to him. In the uncertain light he doubted whether d'Artagnan could distinguish what Porthos was saying, but he was accepting comfort from the big man - leaning his head on Porthos' shoulder, his eyes still bright with unshed tears.

They slept, eventually. Porthos insisted that Athos move to the bed, and made sure he had enough blankets to be comfortable. Julien offered around some brandy he'd been saving, and they sat quietly, watching d'Artagnan sleep and thinking about the move ahead.

* * *

There was little time for introspection in the morning. Julien took charge of d'Artagnan, making sure he ate and changing his dressings again. He didn't see Athos or Porthos until they came to help carry him out through the maze of underground corridors in the fortress, emerging eventually into the watery sunlight of a winter's morning high in the Pyrenean mountains. In the courtyard a small cart awaited him, piled with rugs and with Nuit already hitched to the back. They propped d'Artagnan up at the back of the cart so he could greet his horse properly, and everyone found a reason to stop and watch as the black mare dropped her nose into his hair and snuffled him happily before nudging him firmly on the chin, nearly knocking him over, her tail swishing as if telling him off for deserting her for so long. d'Artagnan laughed in delight as he rubbed her forehead and pulled her ears gently.

But even those few moments of activity were enough to exhaust him and he was grateful when Julien bustled over and made him lie down before climbing in next to him. The plan was for Julien to travel with d'Artagnan and a small escort several leagues north to the tiny village of Spinau, near Larrau, and then ride to join the others somewhere near Ossès which would be the area they patrolled for the next few weeks.

It seemed no time at all before they were ready to move off and he'd barely spoken to Athos and Porthos. He pushed himself upright with difficulty, ignoring Julien's admonishment not to pull his stitches, and looked desperately around the bustling courtyard as everyone mounted up. Then Porthos rode up, patted him briefly on the shoulder and winked at him, and behind him he saw Athos looking over and raising a hand in farewell. There was no time for more before the cart rattled into movement and the riders flooded past him, calling out to him to get well and rejoin them soon.

d'Artagnan couldn't hear their words but he could see their cheerful stoicism as they headed back towards the front line and he craned his neck to watch them, picking out Athos' upright figure and Porthos' broad shoulders topped with his wide-brimmed hat for as long as he could make them out, before flopping back onto the blankets feeling horribly lonely as he faced the long, uncomfortable journey ahead.

* * *

The sun had passed its zenith by the time the cart finally pulled up on a small open square surrounded by wood-framed stone cottages and, overlooked by a white-washed chapel with a square bell-tower. Goats and chickens roamed the square but everyone else had stopped to watch the cart as it wound down a dusty track into the centre of the village. d'Artagnan caught glimpses of dark-haired children in well-patched clothes, the smaller ones staying close to their elder siblings, as he passed.

d'Artagnan was in a world of pain from the constant joggling and jarring of the cart on the journey and it was all he could do to lie still without writhing as he waited to be offloaded. He'd refused any pain draught that morning, knowing he reacted badly to opium and fearing it would simply make him vomit on the journey. Now he was desperate for relief from the pain that pulsed in time with his heart beat.

A slender woman in her twenties came to the back of the cart and regarded him with her head on one side and dancing grey eyes. d'Artagnan felt uncomfortably aware that he was sweating and dishevelled, and tried to push himself up but her eyes flashed alarm and in a moment she had scrambled up next to him, restraining him with a hand on his uninjured shoulder.

A couple of soldiers lifted him down and carried him awkwardly through a doorway and into a small room at the front of a modest cottage. d'Artagnan had to bite his lip and breath through his nose so he didn't cry out as they manoeuvred him onto a neat bed. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing, feeling pathetically grateful to be lying on something soft, and stationary.

There was a flutter of air by his head and he opened his eyes with an effort, to find himself under the scrutiny of a small boy who was standing on one leg, staring at him thoughtfully. Before d'Artagnan could react the boy's eyes suddenly widened, he looked over his shoulder then darted out of the room, ducking past the woman's skirts as she entered carrying a jug and cup, followed by Julien carrying a bag of medical supplies.

Julien unwrapped d'Artagnan's bandages to check his wounds, and the two conferred as he handed over pots of salve and the stoppered glass vial which d'Artagnan knew contained laudanum. Then he was gone, touching d'Artagnan gently on the cheek to bid him farewell and telling him clearly to behave himself and not give Madame Larrault any trouble. d'Artagnan closed his eyes and shut out the world as the last of his comrades left him behind.

* * *

 _A/N: I'm genuinely sorry to say goodbye to Fouchard. I invented him as a guard at the beginning of Luck will Travel and he took on a life of his own as a foil for d'Artagnan as our Gascon moved beyond being the eager, naive young Musketeer that we still saw glimpses of in Series 2. I knew someone close to them had to die for their war to be believable, and couldn't bear to lose Guérin after all he's done for d'Artagnan. (It is slightly disturbing how real these characters have become in my head!)_

 _On a more cheerful note d'Artagnan finally gets some "comfort" over the next few chapters, with one little flourish to come. I hope to post again on Tuesday._


	21. Skin and Bones

_I make no apology for the sheer indulgence of this chapter and the next. I meant to cover d'Artagnan's recovery briefly so he could rejoin the rest of the regiment for the happy-ever-after scene, but it became a vehicle to reflect on what d'Artagnan has seen and learned from the war and I found I was enjoying the respite of the mountain village as much as a war hero might do, after all that has gone before. Hope you enjoy the change of pace too. It's a long one but - spoiler alert - no cliff-hanger!_

* * *

 **Chapter 19: Skin and Bones**

 _Spinau_

He couldn't hear her, but that barrier didn't matter when he had to rely on her for everything. In fact, she mused, maybe it helped, in the beginning, when words might have got in the way.

She watched him for hours after the army medic had departed.

She'd treated many of their neighbours over the years, but never a man such as this, and she found she was nervous. He came from another world, she couldn't communicate with him, and she wasn't sure her skills would be enough to help him.

She'd agreed readily, when the two weary-looking officers had ridden into the village yesterday. Father Andre had greeted them and pointed towards her cottage, and she'd turned from hanging her washing and walked to greet them, already anticipating what they might ask. They'd warned her of the severity of his condition, and the one with the calm greeny-blue eyes had looked at her intently when she'd assured them she could cope. She had the feeling he missed nothing, and had felt oddly complimented when he'd nodded, as if she had passed his inspection. He'd given money to 'cover her expenses' which was more than she'd seen in years, not since her husband had died in the influenza outbreak two winters ago.

She'd readied her own room, moving her five-year-old son Norbert into his sisters' room to share the old marital bed; prepared her herbs and salves; borrowed a tin bath and extra blankets and sheets from various neighbours; and killed a chicken to make broth.

And now he was here, and his otherness frightened her.

He had slept almost as soon as his escort left. She'd seen the look of desolation darken his eyes and she'd seen the decisive way he'd closed his eyes, and she nodded to herself. He was frightened, and in pain, and felt alone. This, she understood.

But it was harder than she expected, caring for this man she'd never met. He smelt strange, for one thing. Not foul, particularly, though he was drenched in sweat and his clothes were stained, but... _alien_. He smelled of dust and blood. Leather and gunpowder. Rain and earth. He smelled of death.

She smiled sadly at her fanciful mind, and called her eldest, Celeste, to help her ease the filthy shirt from his back now he was deeply asleep.

Later she would wash the shirt, admiring the delicate stitching on the neck and cuffs. It was too shredded for her skills to mend. She had incredible patience with people and animals in distress, and absolutely none for fine needlework on fiddly material. For now she'd tucked it under the bed along with his weapons, which young Norbert knew not to touch on pain of being in charge of all the family washing for a week.

The man's wounds were horrific. She couldn't understand how he was alive, but here he was, lying here in her bed, in the room her husband had built, his breath hitching every time she touched him. His left side was peppered with holes gouged into his skin by burning metal, leaving the skin blackened and blistered. In places these showed signs of healing but around others the skin was puckered and reddened and she suspected there were still fragments embedded in his body.

The worst wounds – the gunshot wound under his right shoulder, and the deep hole in his left side – had been well-tended. She had prepared a herbal paste that would help to draw out any infection and she plastered this now onto a cotton pad, and bandaged the poultice over the mess on his side with a sense of relief.

She sent eight-year-old Celeste to borrow a pair of fine tweezers from her neighbour Geraint, a burly farmer whose huge hands were surprisingly nimble in the evenings when he mended everyone's clocks and repaired leatherwork. In her daughter's absence she worked quickly to strip the man's braes, finding the same gouges and blackened, burned patches of flesh. There was another deep wound in his left thigh which had been cleaned and carefully stitched, but it was long, and she thought it must hurt like crazy where it had bitten deep into his muscle.

She dipped a cloth into the bowl of warm water she'd set on the table next to the window, and started to clean his skin, working carefully around the worst of the wounds. She worked slowly, methodically, using the warm water to smooth and soothe his wounded body, running the water carefully down his cheeks and neck, lifting his limbs and washing under his arms, trying not to think about the intimacy of the act. She ran the cloth gently down his forearms, feeling the hard muscle and ridges of old scars settle under her touch. She took each finger in turn, pressing the warm cloth gently to loosen weeks-worth of old dirt caking his ragged fingernails.

She stopped to change the water and smooth a cream into the worst of the burns on his face and hands, before continuing to wash the rest of his body, careful to avoid the patches where the skin had peeled and his flesh still oozed a bloody discharge. She felt her face flush as she worked the cloth down the hard muscles of his stomach, over the sharp points of his hips, then down the tops of his thighs. It was several years since she'd seen a man's body, and while her husband had been fit from years of working the land, this man was all lean flesh, rigid muscle, and scar layered on scar. She cleaned around his private parts carefully, realising there was nothing erotic in the movement of her hands across this part of the stranger's body. For some reason it seemed more intimate to be touching the soft skin at the top of his thighs or the soles of his feet. She bit her lip, strangely moved by the trust indicated by his continued restfulness. His body was literally in her hands, and with it lay the responsibility for his future.

She didn't want to disturb his sleep, but managed to roll him a little to face the window, propping his chest on a rolled blanket and waiting until his breathing settled again before taking up another clean cloth. Against the stream of sunlight she could make out few details but her fingers found ridges of fresh scar tissue striping his back, and she wondered at the number of places his body had been wounded; wondered at the stories his body could tell; wondered if there was any part of his body unmarked by war.

When she could reach no more without his breath becoming shallow and disturbed, she dried him with a piece of soft felted cloth and rolled him gently onto his back. He was starting to shiver now and she quickly covered his nakedness with a sheet, then quilted a blanket on top, pulling it up to his shoulders. She cleared away the filthy water and cloths, setting them aside to wash later, and fetched the stones she'd placed by the fireplace in the main room, wrapping them in heavy cloth and placing them on either side of his chest to warm him, then stood back and watched him breathe for a moment.

The small drop of laudanum she'd given, in a herbal tea of her own recipe, was working by now and his face looked less pinched, but the tight lines around his eyes and mouth told her he was still in considerable pain. She sighed, knowing from Julien's instructions that he was over-sensitive to laudanum and she could not risk giving him more too soon.

He was still breathing deeply and regularly though, so she took up the tweezers Celeste had brought back, and settled on the chair next to him, lifting the covers enough to expose his left flank, and began to patiently pick every black dot of metal out of his skin. He'd been well-cared for by the Musketeer medics, but she guessed they hadn't had the time or facilities to undertake this work. Some were too embedded for tweezers so she had to cut the skin to reach them but she knew it was necessary. Left in his flesh there was too great a risk of infection even from the tiny fragments.

Eventually it was done. He'd flinched and sometimes twisted away from her, his face creasing as the discomfort brought him close to waking, but his eyes had remained closed and she thanked heaven for the mercy of unconsciousness.

She rose, straightening her stiff back, and moved quietly around the room, gathering everything which needed washing and tidying her ingredients away. She turned to check him once more before leaving and stopped dead, startled to find his deep brown eyes watching her. She stepped to his bedside and checked the temperature of his forehead. He blinked when she touched him, and raised a shaky hand to catch hold of hers. She bent low, hearing his voice for the first time as he whispered his thanks. She nodded, briskly straightened the sheet over his bare chest and walked out on legs that trembled slightly.

* * *

After two weeks of caring for him she felt she knew him almost as well as she had known her husband.

She'd watched his blind panic as he'd awoken frequently in the first night of restless sleep, struggling to remember where he was, and she'd quickly learned to reassure him by touch, not the words which were useless in his silent world.

She'd seen his watchful eyes track her movements around the room, and learned to meet his eyes frequently with hers, making the human connection that his pain and deafness otherwise denied.

On the first morning she'd come running at the sound of a crash from his room followed by an ominous silence, and found him collapsed on the floor, the table on its side and blood oozing from a gash over one eye. She'd had to fetch a neighbour to help lift him back onto the bed, during which she'd realised why he'd attempted to stand. His braes were drenched with acrid urine and she guessed he had been trying to find a chamber pot, perhaps too embarrassed to call for help or just too muddled after his long, drug-assisted sleep.

She'd seen the look in his eyes when he next awoke, after she'd washed him and redressed him in her husband's braes. He'd been confused for a moment, then she saw comprehension dawn as he remembered what had happened, and she saw when he noticed the clean clothes. He'd closed his eyes as if in pain and the lines around his mouth tightened in his distress. She'd touched his hand gently then, and squeezed it as he looked up at her, shame curling in his eyes, and tried to reassure him with dip of her head, a gentle smile, a touch on his cheek. She'd watched him process this, close his eyes again, then take a breath and nod his thanks, his nostrils flaring his discomfort as he worked out what he'd put her through. She patted his hand to convey that it was understood, forgiven, over.

She showed him the chair lined up by the bed now, with the chamber pot ready on the seat, so he could lean on the chair back while his legs were so unsteady. She watched him register the practical arrangement, saw his eyes glisten and she wondered, as she stepped quietly from the room to give him privacy, whether the tears were of pain, or embarrassment, or thankfulness.

She'd learned that he was thoughtful, as he always thanked her when she rose from cleaning his wounds or straightening his blankets and pillows to make him more comfortable.

She'd learned that he was kind, as he spoke softly to her youngest, Suzette, when the three-year-old stared from the doorway, round-eyed, at the silent stranger, hesitating to follow her mother into the room. Slowly his gentle voice and quiet words reassured her to the point where she was brave enough to help him drink water and hand the fresh bandages to her mother, and within days she knew, if Suzette was missing, that she would find her little one curled up on the end of his bed, sucking her thumb, watching him sleep.

She'd learned that he was patient, as he bore the discomfort of her constant ministrations stoically and tried endlessly to decipher the movement of her lips as she talked to him. She learned to speak in short sentences, touching his arm first to draw those deep brown eyes to her, and explain what she was doing so she didn't startle him.

She could see his frustration when she had to help him to sit up in bed for the first time, and the flicker of satisfaction when he managed it for himself after a couple of days.

She watched him curl his fingers into white-knuckled fists as the pain of his healing skin threatened to overwhelm him at times, and the effort he made not to cry out when she debrided the dead tissue from his burns to keep the wounds clean and allow the new skin to form without ugly scarring.

She found herself noticing every tiny emotion that crossed his expressive features. She fell asleep to the sound of his quiet breathing, picturing his tanned fingers as they curled around a cup of water or the way his long hair fell over his eyes when he bowed his head while trying to push himself upright, and she was frightened by the emotions he stirred in her.

* * *

One morning Norbert barrelled into the house, tears flooding his cheeks as he sobbed and showed her the grazes from a fall on his way home from the chapel where the village children took their daily lessons with the priest. She knelt to examine his knees, struggling to keep him still as he winced and cried at her touch, and heard d'Artagnan call out to them. For a second she was frustrated, thinking he needed attention just when Norbert needed her, but then d'Artagnan's words sank in and she realised he was trying to distract the boy.

"Little one, have you seen Nuit today? Is she eating well?" he was calling over the racket of Norbert's noisy sobs. She lifted her son's chin with her fingers and pointed at the door to d'Artagnan's room. Another hiccupping sob escaped him, but he stopped long enough to hear what d'Artagnan was calling.

"Go on," she nudged him. "I'll patch you up in there."

So he hobbled bravely into d'Artagnan's room, and by the time she'd gathered warm water and a fresh cloth to clean the grazes, he was sitting on d'Artagnan's bed telling him in great detail about grooming Nuit that morning before school. d'Artagnan had quickly established that the five-year-old loved horses and had asked him to keep a special eye on his magnificent war horse, to the boy's obvious pride.

She watched them for a moment, seeing Norbert swinging his legs as they talked, his tears forgotten. And she saw that d'Artagnan was following her son's words even when he ducked his head to examine his torn knees. An 'oh!' of realisation escaped her as she remembered how d'Artagnan had called out even though they were outside his room, and d'Artagnan looked over to her, his eyes smiling their relief as he nodded slightly. He could hear again!

When she'd settled Norbert and turned to him again, he'd told her softly that his hearing had crept back that morning in a haze of white noise and high-pitched whistles. Voices were fuzzy and it was days before he could listen easily without lip-reading, but she saw how his expression relaxed from that moment, and she knew he was starting to believe that he would get better.

* * *

Not long after that she found him using the chair to walk his way around the room. She scolded him and sent him firmly back to the bed, and berated him when she found his leg bandage oozing fresh blood from his exertions. "You can't hurry healing" became a familiar phrase that Celeste and even little Suzette would repeat sternly if they found him out of bed when they returned from their daily lessons in the chapel.

She learned to love the fleeting grin when they told him off, as much as the stoic smile when she pulled off the bandages that stuck to his wounds, and the proud beam when, a week after being brought to their village, he managed to manoeuvre his chair all the way outside. He rested on the bench beside the front door, panting softly from pain and exertion, sweat dripping down his face, and she sat beside him, running her fingers over the wood which her husband had planed so they had somewhere to watch the sunset over the chapel on the other side of the village square. Now she shared the bench with this exotic stranger and realised it was the first time she'd sat here with any man except her husband.

She'd risen, once she was sure he wouldn't keel over, and fetched a blanket, and water, and settled beside him again to wait for the children to come home from playing near the river. They'd talked for the first time about something other than how he was feeling or about her children. He'd asked about the village, and her husband, and she'd asked him about the war and how long he'd been away.

That had started a new routine for them both. She would dress his wounds – a process which was now taking thirty minutes instead of an hour or more – and bring him breakfast, and warm water to wash in privacy while she breakfasted in the other room with her children and sent them running off to chapel for school. Then she would help him outside, and she would do the washing, or tend her tiny garden at the side of the cottage, or prepare the vegetables, and whenever she could she would sit with him and they would talk.

Norbert brought him a fresh, sturdy hazel pole, and as the skin on his hands healed he began to carve it, first shortening it to the correct height, then shaping the top to fit his hand so he could use it to lean on instead of the chair. Then he peeled the bark from its length with his main gauche and used a stone to shape and smooth the wood, until finally he was ready to try it. Norbert clapped as d'Artagnan made his first circuit of the cottage, and she found herself grinning stupidly as she watched his lean figure disappear slowly behind their home.

* * *

The second Saturday, when he'd been there more than two weeks already, the sun was unexpectedly warm and they all moved outside, chatting to neighbours as they went about their chores – washing clothes, scrubbing pots, sweeping in front of their houses, digging up the last of the vegetables. Norbert brought Nuit from the field where she'd been enjoying some decent grass and the company of two sturdy village ponies, and d'Artagnan admired the sheen on her flanks, carefully not mentioning the dust on her back where Norbert could not reach.

Celeste helped her mother with the washing, then both girls helped pick the leaves from a bundle of dried herbs and took turns to grind it with pestle and mortar. Ninette mixed in her oils and poured it carefully into clean bottles to replenish her stocks. d'Artagnan sat bundled in blankets, watching and teasing them and working on his stick, carving delicate patterns into the core.

When Norbert returned from taking Nuit back to her field, he sat nestled up against d'Artagnan's side and begged him to tell him some war stories.

This had become a regular request. He'd already extracted a promise that d'Artagnan would teach him some sword skills as soon as he could stand without support, and was busy carving himself a short sword from the remains of the branch he'd found for d'Artagnan's stick. d'Artagnan usually fobbed him off with a frivolous anecdote, well aware of Ninette's anxious attention when Norbert showed too much interest in the war, but today the girls joined in, asking questions about where soldiers slept, did they have beds and blankets, and what did they eat and how did they wash their clothes.

He grinned in easy enjoyment of their differing interests in the soldier's life, and described their tents, describing the daily dance he and Porthos had to make to get dressed without falling over each other, and then told them about Chonfleur, their burly, hard-working cook, and the amazing bread he made fresh for them every morning, regardless of the weather or whether they'd spent all night marching and pitching camp. He told them about washing in streams or buckets, and swimming in whatever lake or river he could find, laughing at their expressions when they realised he was serious. Children of the foothills knew well how cold the mountain water was.

They begged for more, so he told them about the children the Musketeers had adopted* – it seemed so long ago now - and how they'd managed to keep them hidden from the army officers, but that his own Captain Athos had known about them all along and turned a blind eye. Their faces fell when he explained that the children had been orphaned by the war, so he told them about the lovely farming couple who had adopted them when the army had to move on, and watched as Suzette snuck her hand into her mother's and Norbert shifted a little closer to his big sister.

He tried to change the subject then, asking them about the neighbouring village, much bigger than theirs, to which they went once a week to learn with a proper teacher. But it was not long before Norbert was asking him how many battles he had fought in, and how many man he had vanquished.

Vanquished. A strange word.

It meant beaten, overcome, but it did not hint at the reality – the stench as a man was eviscerated, the screams, the roar of adrenaline-fuelled bravado, the stink of gunpowder and sweat and piss and blood, the dirt in his nostrils, the ringing in his ears...

He had shut his eyes, he realised, and opened them to find all four of them staring at him openly.

He shook himself, apologised, looked for something he could answer that would not give them nightmares. His eyes caught hers, and found a look of tenderness mixed with something like a plea. He frowned, trying to understand what she wanted, and she flicked her gaze towards Norbert, and this time he could see the worry in her eyes, and he understood that she was frightened her son would listen only to the glory, the heroics, the passion of battle, and would not hear the pain and fear that underlay everything.

He bit his lip. How could he answer without scaring them? These children knew of loss; quite apart from their father's death, no one growing up in a farming community was shielded from the rude reality of birth and death. But they knew nothing of the inhumanity of war and he couldn't begin to find words to express it, even if he wanted to. He looked down and found Norbert staring up at him, his face alight with anticipation, and sighed. It would be easy – safest – to keep quiet, as he knew Ninette wanted. But he also knew that to say nothing would only allow the young boy's imagination to run wild, painting d'Artagnan in the light of mysterious heroic stranger and possibly deepen his fascination for the war to the point of obsession.

He suddenly remembered Athos' first words to him. "I usually remember the men I kill." He had taken those words and tucked them into his heart, as he had done with everything Athos had taught him, knowingly or not. But was it still true? Could he remember every face, every death, after so long at war?

With a feeling of dread, he realised he couldn't. There were simply too many. He couldn't even remember some of the individual battles they'd fought in; after nearly three years, they all seemed to merge in his memory.

Something of his inner distress must have shown on his face, for Norbert's hand was patting his arm gently, and little Suzette had left her mother's side and was climbing up to sit on his other side, ducking her head into him. He winced as she inadvertently brushed against the wound on his side, but shook his head as Ninette made to rise, to let her know he was fine. He wrapped a corner of his blanket around the little girl and dredged up a smile for Ninette, then looked down at Norbert who was still waiting patiently for an answer.

He caught the boy's hand and squeezed gently, aware he had been silent for too long. With an effort, he mustered a smile and used words as a barrier between memory and emotion, placing each one carefully as if they were stones in a wall.

"It's hard to remember, little one. When I joined the musketeers, Captain Athos taught me that I should always honour the memory of any man I had to kill." The children all called him Captain Athos when they spoke of him in awed tones, as if his title was part of his name. He'd made quite an impression on them in his battle-torn uniform when he'd arrived with Porthos looking for somewhere for his soldier to recuperate. d'Artagnan found he'd begun referring to him in the same way, storing it up to amuse Athos when he next saw him. "I tried to do it at first: I made sure I remembered each face, and thought about they had been like in life; whether they had families... I said a prayer for each one, too." He paused, thinking of Aramis and how he always showed such respect and compassion for anyone who fell within his reach, friend or foe.

He swallowed, pushing down the regret he always felt when he remembered Aramis, picturing him kneeling in a cold chapel for hour after hour praying for their safe return, and carried on, clearing his throat. "But in a war there are too many battles and too many men die. It's – I can't remember them all. And that's – that feels so wrong, because they are men like me, good men, and they deserve to be remembered, and honoured."

Most of them, he amended silently. There were some who did not deserve an honourable death, not even a prayer. He suddenly remembered a fragment of dream – he thought it was a dream – in which he watched Athos killing Bautista, the Spaniard who still tormented him in his nightmares. He saw Athos running him through and pulling his sword out in one fluid motion, turning away before the body even began to fall. Was it a dream? It was a silent scene, played out in his mind countless times in the last week. It must be a dream... but he clearly remembered the feeling of helplessness, lying on his back, and turning his head to find Fouchard's body next to his, and watching flakes of ash drifting down from the sky, and feeling heat in his side, burning heat... It was the same in every dream and he was starting to wonder if perhaps it could be real.

He'd been silent for a long time again, and he felt Norbert nudge him.

"Are you alright, Monsieur d'Artagnan?"

He nudged him back. "Yes, little warrior." He heard Ninette's indrawn breath and winced inwardly. His head began to ache from the delicate path he was treading. "I was remembering a man who deserved to die, and I got a little lost."

"Tell me! Was he a bad man?"

d'Artagnan groaned inwardly. He could not – _would not_ – touch that memory here, in this beautiful, peaceful place. "There are no bad men, Norbert." He repeated the words he'd heard his father tell him countless times in his own childhood and realised with shock that he didn't believe this particular wisdom anymore. He gritted his teeth: Norbert would have to chose for himself how to view the world when he was old enough. "But there are bad _acts_ , and we all have to choose how to treat others. This man – he made some bad choices. I won't forget his death." He said it so emphatically that he began to believe it was true, even though he could not be sure. He resolved to ask Athos, the first chance he got.

Ninette rose then, and gathered the medicine and ingredients, saying she would make lunch. Celeste followed her to help, but the other two stayed snuggled with d'Artagnan on the bench, so he carried on, quietly telling them more stories. He tried to lighten the mood, and told them about the young army recruit who told everyone how well he could ride, but who fell off into the ashes of last night's fire the first time his horse trotted. They giggled at his description of the man's face as he struggled to his feet, covered equally in embarrassment and grey soot. This led on to his description of Fouchard, another army man whose horsemanship had been sorely lacking, at first, and how he'd helped him to improve his riding skills and learn to care for his horse.

"What sort of things did you teach him?" Norbert demanded to know.

"Oh... things like checking their legs for heat and soreness, after battle, and rubbing them with warm water to ease their muscles. And always putting straw under their rugs, if they are still sweaty and there is no warm water to wash their backs, so they cool off without catching a chill. Um... what leaves they can eat if their corn rations are running low, and which ones give them stomach ache."

Norbert was nodding his agreement, looking important as he realised he knew all of this already. "More!" he demanded.

d'Artagnan racked his brains for something else to tell them. He didn't want to scare Suzette, who was listening just as intently on his other side, but Norbert's face showed his rapt attention and d'Artagnan didn't think he'd managed to put him off the notion of becoming a soldier yet. So he told them about the little things none of them bothered to talk about because it was as much a part of soldiering as the uniform. The soreness of unwashed skin when you've marched for hours in the sun. The way the raw patches on your feet merge to form one huge blister and the skin comes off with your stocking when you finally stop to rest. The feeling of being weak with hunger, light-headed with thirst. Turning to fight even when your body aches for rest, your head floats with exhaustion, your eyes are full of grit, your fingers cramping with their desperate grip on your sword. The hollow feeling when you get back to camp after burying the dead, and find nothing to eat but the morning's cold porridge and stale bread. Lying down to sleep, still in the clothes from two days ago, and being woken after an hour to take guard duty. The sores you get from scratching at flea bites, and the hard skin you get on your hips and elbows from sleeping on the bare ground, and the way your scalp itches when you haven't had time to wash the sweat from your hair in weeks.

Suzette was frowning now, trying to decide whether not washing your hair for weeks was a good or bad thing, but Norbert was still gazing at him adoringly and d'Artagnan knew all the stories of hardship were just feeding his notion of d'Artagnan-as-hero.

So he told him about Fouchard. About how he'd climbed the cliff, in their last battle, and helped to capture the Spanish cannon, and somewhere in the middle of it he was aware of Ninette coming out to call them for lunch, and frowning when she heard this part of the story, but he didn't stop, he _couldn't_ stop because he had to make the boy understand. So he told him about the Spanish men running away from the cannon, and about seeing the look on their faces, and realising what was wrong. And he saw the moment when Norbert understood it too, when he recognised that d'Artagnan was telling him about the moment that he'd got injured, and he saw the adoration turn to apprehension; but it was still mixed with determination and hero-worship. So he carried on, and told him about trying to warn the others, and running towards Fouchard, and knowing it was too late. He told him he couldn't remember much of what followed, except that Captain Athos had seen the explosion and came to protect him, that he'd got him down off the mountain, and stayed with him because he didn't want d'Artagnan to die alone.

His voice broke then, and Suzette told him crossly that he didn't die, he was here, with them, and he shouldn't be sad. And he smiled then, but his smile vanished too soon as he remembered why he was telling them this. So he told them that Fouchard had been carried down, but was too badly injured to live. That he'd died, and d'Artagnan had not been there to say goodbye. That it hurt; it hurt more than he could tell them, to lose a friend. That he had woken every morning of the war, frightened that he would lose a friend today.

That you didn't fight to 'vanquish' the enemy.

That those they fought they were just men, like those he served with.

That you didn't fight to stay alive yourself, but you fought to keep those you around you, those you _loved_ , alive.

And that you never, ever forgot the times you failed.

There was a long silence then, broken only by the sound of Suzette sniffing next to him. He swallowed, realising his voice was hoarse from speaking for so long, and ran a hand over his face, trying to compose himself and finding, to his surprise, tears dripping down his cheeks. He wiped them away but more came, and he began to breathe faster, panic flooding his body at the thought that he was out of control, again; that his emotions were leaking out of him and he couldn't stop them. He'd forgotten all about teaching Norbert something of the reality of war, and could think only of Fouchard's face now, as he'd rolled off him in the deafening silence of the explosion's aftermath, his own body afloat on a red sea of pain, his mind tumbling in the turbulent air, his thoughts only on the fact that he was too late to save his friend.

There was a rustling, a stirring of air around him that he was aware of but couldn't summon the energy to respond to. He was aware of Norbert's voice protesting as Ninette took him by the hand and urged him to come indoors. He wanted to tell her that he was fine, or perhaps to apologise for saying too much, but his body felt too heavy to move, so he went on staring at his hands and watching the tears drip slowly onto his fingers.

Then there was a square of white cloth being pressed into his hand, and he took it, noticing the calloused fingers and blunt nails of the one who passed it to him. He looked up, and found himself looking into the face of Captain Athos himself.

He began to laugh, wondering if he would ever again think of Athos without mentally giving him the soubriquet of his rank; tried to stand, found Athos grabbing at his arm as he stumbled, felt his balance going, his laughter hiccupping now and coming perilously close to tears again, tipping forward into Athos' solid body and found himself enveloped, hugged, embraced, clapped soundly on the back and clasped around his neck, laughing and definitely crying now, and in the middle of all the emotion noticing that he hadn't felt this safe for a very long time.

* * *

The handkerchief had been put to good use, and both men had composed themselves. Athos held d'Artagnan by both shoulders to look at him properly, demanding to know when his hearing had returned, then confessed he'd heard his musketeer talking about the war, having seen them as soon as he'd ridden into the village. He'd thought to surprise them but had been mesmerised by d'Artagnan's quiet words and had only come forward when he'd seen the raw emotion and realised he had to intervene.

He sent Norbert to retrieve Roger, who was meandering about the dusty square examining the sparse grass with disgusted snorts, and told d'Artagnan quietly that they all missed Fouchard, every day. d'Artagnan had nodded, and dropped his head to hide another tide of emotion, and Athos had exclaimed softly and pulled him in for another brusque hug before pushing him away and helping him to sit down again, murmuring that he'd have come sooner if he'd know what a welcome he would get. d'Artagnan had thumped him on the chest then panicked, remembering Athos' own wound too late, and Athos had laughed – properly laughed – at the expression on his face, and patted his own shoulder. "Don't worry; it's healing up well, thanks to Porthos forbidding me to do anything remotely strenuous." He explained Porthos was leading the new recruits on their first overnight mission and he'd taken advantage of the absence of his self-appointed "governess" to visit d'Artagnan.

d'Artagnan laughed at the image conjured up by the description of Porthos as governess, but sobered quickly. "I never thanked you!" he blurted out without preamble, aware of just how much he owed Athos. Telling the story to Norbert had brought it all back and he started to stumble out his gratitude to his captain and dear friend for rescuing him, for looking out for him as he always did. Immediately he saw Athos' eyes flicker and knew that he would be thinking about Roncesvalle when – in his eyes at least – he had _not_ been able to look out for d'Artagnan.

But before either could talk further, Ninette was back, quietly encouraging Athos to come in and take lunch with them, fussing over how far he had ridden and – when he hesitated – telling him firmly that d'Artagnan was getting cold and needed to rest inside.

Athos caught d'Artagnan's eye-roll at the blatant manipulation, and grinned as he helped him to stand. He admired the home-made walking stick, making Norbert literally bounce up and down with pride at his part in helping to make it. Later, d'Artagnan promised himself: later he would talk to Athos.

Lunch was the usual simple meal of soup and bread, during which d'Artagnan quizzed Athos on where they were based and how everyone was, especially those who were still recovering after the recent battle. He was relieved to hear that the other casualties were all recovering well although Guérin was still on light duties because of the headaches he suffered from since his head wound at Candanchú. They were working along this part of the border, making sure there were no more Spanish lurking in the foothills, mopping up any patrols, stragglers or deserters they found.

It sounded like the old days at the beginning of the war – just the Musketeers, rough camping, permanently on horseback: no fixed battles, no schedules, no army of massed regiments. Porthos was in his element, Athos reported, and d'Artagnan wished more desperately than ever that he could be back with them and part of it. Athos watched him, understanding the Gascon's frustration but knowing he was in the best place to heal, and engaged his host and her family in conversation, steering firmly away from the subject of war.

By the end of the meal d'Artagnan was flagging, worn out after the long morning's fresh air and all the talking, and Ninette was unmoving in her insistence that he go to lie down. Athos was happy to be rescued from a long conversation with Celeste on the serious subject of vegetable growing, and leapt to his feet to help d'Artagnan to his room, trying not to notice how thin he still was, or how he sank onto the mattress with a sigh of relief and leaned his back carefully to the wall, sitting with his eyes tight shut for a moment.

"How bad is it?"

There was a beat before d'Artagnan opened his eyes again and raised a smile. "I have never found sitting up so hard in my life," he admitted ruefully, touching his side where his ribs were far from healed.

"And your chest? Your leg?" prompted Athos.

d'Artagnan rotated his right shoulder as he reflected on his answer. "It's not too bad. Still hurts if I laugh. Or lift my arm too high. Or –" He stopped as he saw Athos' eyebrow rising. "Well, it's getting better. And my leg only hurts when I put weight on it, and that's getting easier. I'm building up the walking each day... What's the plan? When do you have to leave?"

"I should be heading off; it'll take me a couple of hours to get back. d'Artagnan... we are likely to get our orders very soon. To head north."

d'Artagnan's eyes flickered. "How soon?"

A shake of the head; he didn't know. "A few days, maybe a week."

Days? d'Artagnan still couldn't walk unassisted. There was no way he could mount up, still less travel for a week or more to the north-eastern front.

Athos must have seen the dejection in his eyes. "I'm going to delay all I can. I have a lot of men still recovering. And," he hesitated, a small grin tugging at one corner of his mouth, "it's hard for orders to catch up with us when we move around so much."

d'Artagnan's answering smile faded quickly as he took in the precariousness of his position. If he wasn't fit to ride, they would be forced to leave him behind. He'd have to join another unit, or wait for a release to head north on his own to catch them up. A wave of tiredness swept over him as he contemplated the possibility he might lose track of Athos and Porthos entirely.

Athos rose and picked up his hat, straightened his doublet, settled his sword more comfortably, then touched d'Artagnan briefly on the shoulder. "I won't leave you behind. That's a promise." And before d'Artagnan could respond, he had gone.

* * *

 _* d'Artagnan's story about the war orphans is told in Battlescars 2: Light up the Dark._

 _For those who need fair warning, there are just two more chapters to go and a brief epilogue. I promise I will get them posted quickly x_


	22. Fantasy

_This is the second chapter of the "comfort" part which was originally supposed to be one scene - after more than 14,000 words I realised it had got away from me a bit! (I know that won't surprise any of you, not being known for my brevity or forward planning!) Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **Chapter 20: Fantasy**

After the emotional morning and Athos' visit, d'Artagnan had slept for much of the afternoon, but by nightfall he was on his feet, pushing himself to walk as far as the well in the centre of the square. In the morning he did it again, this time without a stick, took a short rest, then walked to the chapel. It was only a hundred paces or so, but it felt like a marathon to d'Artagnan as he hobbled, trying to put equal weight on his leg and ignore the tugging pain in his thigh every time he lifted it.

By nightfall his thigh was hot and swollen and he was nearly crying with pain. Ninette did not have the heart to scold him or remind him that you cannot rush the healing, but sat patiently draping cloths soaked in cool water endlessly on the abused muscle, trying to cool it down, while d'Artagnan clenched his fists and turned his head away to hide the hiss of pain which escaped his gritted teeth at every movement.

When the children had finished eating in the other room she called Celeste to take over, and rose to prepare a herb paste which she hoped would work to draw out the heat overnight. When it was ready she smoothed it directly onto his skin, avoiding only the wound itself which was still red and oozing in several places, covered it in a dry cloth and bandaged everything tightly in place, then sat watching d'Artagnan's face as he tried to relax his hands and ride out the pain from her ministrations.

Eventually he turned to face her. "I'm sorry. I've made more work for you."

"You have to work _with_ your body, d'Artagnan. You can't force muscles when they are torn. It's – "

"I _know_." He cut her off, angrily, and she sat quietly knowing the anger was not for her. After a moment he spoke again, more softly. "I'm not good company tonight, Ninette."

She took the hint and rose, tidying away methodically as she always did then turning at the door and wishing him a good night. He nodded once without meeting her eyes, and turned his head back to the window and the dark night outside.

In the morning he looked awful, and she guessed he had not slept well. He stayed in bed to eat his porridge, as she instructed, and spoke only to thank her when she checked his dressings and replenished the cooling poultice on his leg. The children were subdued around him, picking up on the waves of suppressed despair and frustration he was radiating. She readied them for church and left a bowl of hot water by his bed without comment.

When they returned they found him in the living room looking marginally better. He'd obviously washed, and changed his clothes, and was now scraping the mud off the root vegetables she'd dug earlier for today's soup.

"I used the stick," he said, before she had a chance to question him, and she smiled, relieved that he'd got his head sorted again. The children ran to help him and were soon chatting to him about church and Celeste's idea of plaiting grasses into Nuit's mane in honour of the Sabbath, and things slowly returned to normal.

It was another day before his thigh was strong enough to walk without pain again, but he'd learned his lesson and didn't rush it. She knew he was anxious and unsettled after the visit from his captain, but he kept his worries to himself and worked on his fitness as best he could. Under instruction, Norbert wrapped rope around a couple of logs, making loops on top, and d'Artagnan sat on the edge of the bed and used them as weights for his arms and his uninjured right leg, hooking his toe through the loop and lifting it with a straight leg. Norbert also made him a second stick, and he used both diligently when walking about the house to ensure he gave the wound on his thigh more time to heal.

He progressed to the bench outside again, even though it was full winter by now and the days were chilly, the cold wind from the mountains occasionally bringing the first flurries of snow. Norbert ran up and down with Nuit at her slowest trot in an attempt to exercise her, and d'Artagnan even gave him a leg up so he could perch on her back while Celeste walked alongside, the young boy grinning from ear to ear. Nuit was surprisingly calm and patient with the children and Norbert could probably have ridden her alone, but d'Artagnan didn't want to risk him falling off her if she stumbled – she stood 17 hands at the shoulder and it was a long way down for a five year old.

Towards the end of the week he was walking unaided again, and even began to do the simpler training exercises. He couldn't lunge yet, or use his left arm extravagantly because of the pull on his ribs, but if he kept his back straight he could at least do some of the sword movements. Norbert was fascinated, rushing to finish his own wooden sword so he could copy d'Artagnan's movements. He watched their mismatched shadows in the winter sun, their elongated swords twirling and slashing through the air, and grinned at how they must look.

When Norbert ran off to see to Nuit he turned and found Ninette watching them from her front doorway, an odd expression on her face. He stammered an apology, thinking her angry that he'd been teaching sword-play to her young son, but she waved off his concern and went to sit on the bench. He joined her, stretching his left leg out to ease the muscle and watching Norbert in the distance, standing on the field gate to feed Nuit some pilfered carrots. He tipped his head up to the sun, feeling a surge of contentment at their peaceful surroundings, but after a moment he became aware of her silence and stirred himself to look at her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. I was just ... I was just watching you two together and thinking..."

She stopped, and d'Artagnan waited, puzzled. He was used to her being poised, calmly in control, and this uncertainty was new for him. Eventually he prompted her. "What were you thinking?"

She hesitated, then looked straight at him, and carried on in a rush. "I don't want you to go."

There was a silence; this hadn't been at all what d'Artagnan was expecting to hear, and he was confused. "Go ... back to the war?"

"No, d'Artagnan." Her voice was more confident now. "I don't want you to leave. I want you to stay here, with us." She paused, watching his face as he struggled to work out what she meant, and smiled. Men were so slow sometimes! She leaned towards him and watched his breath stutter at her closeness. "I am in love with you, d'Artagnan." Close enough to breath in the warm, musky smell of his skin, the stubble on his cheeks, the moist lips so close to her own ... She moved her head another inch and touched his lips with her own.

For a second he didn't move, still reeling from the suddenness of her declaration. She must have taken his lack of reaction for permission, for she turned her head more, pressing her lips more firmly on his, and suddenly his body took command where his head was still in chaos. He jerked his head away from hers so fast that he cracked the back of his head on the wall, letting out a yelp.

"What's wrong?" Norbert ran up, looking puzzled. d'Artagnan put a hand to the back of his head, managing not to look at Ninette but aware that she was standing, fussing, reaching out to check his head. "I'm fine, just banged my head. How's Nuit?"

He barely listened while Norbert chattered about what she'd eaten that morning, until Ninette shooed him indoors. In the sudden silence they sat mutely on the bench, and he looked across the square to where the priest was sweeping out his church, and wondered if anyone had seen the abbreviated kiss, and what on earth he was going to say to her.

Eventually he got the courage to look at her and saw she was twisting a handkerchief in her strong fingers. Acting on impulse he put his hand over hers and squeezed, hearing a tiny exhalation. Quickly, before she could misconstrue his action, he started to speak.

"When you... before then, I was thinking that Constance would love it here." He paused, and found her eyes searching his face. Only then did it occur to him that he had not talked of his wife in this place. He had long ago tucked his feelings for her deep inside, wanting to keep her untainted by the horrors of war, even in his mind. His yearning for her had nearly destroyed him in the first few weeks of the war and he'd learned his lesson then; better not to think about what he was missing, what he might not have again. He had become so accustomed to the privacy of his memories that he had not thought to explain his status here. "Constance is my wife." He saw her eyes drop instantly to his left hand where he held hers. "They took my ring off when they were treating my burns. Athos probably still has it; I forgot to ask."

He watched her eyes close in understanding, and the flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. She made to pull her hand from his and he stopped her. "Ninette, there are many different kinds of love." She frowned, and turned her head away, but he persevered. "I was lucky, _so_ lucky to have found her. I knew as soon as I saw her that I would never love anyone else in the same way. And it wasn't easy, especially for her, but eventually we were together, and we married, on the same day war was declared." She inhaled sharply. Even in her own distress she could imagine the sweet pain of that moment, when instead of sheer happiness he was faced with the prospect of leaving his new wife within days. "But the love of my brothers has deepened and sustained me through this war. And everywhere I go I find beautiful people, amazing people like you and your family, who have offered me your home and your hearts... If we are lucky, friendships and family sustain us where love is out of reach."

She bit her lip, and nodded, shakily, and he hoped she'd heard what he was trying to say. She was so full of love, and life, and she needed someone to love who would love her back. He didn't want to patronise her by putting it into words so bluntly, but he hoped she would work it out for herself in time.

He closed his eyes and rested his head gingerly on the wall; his head was thumping now, but more from emotion than the knock he'd given himself. How was life so bloody complicated?

* * *

It passed, as these things do. At the evening meal she'd been silent, speaking mostly to the children, and he'd pleaded tiredness and escaped early to bed. But in the morning she was able to look him in the eye again, and when the children were outside doing their chores she turned to him as he helped her to dry their breakfast dishes, and thanked him, and he knew she was referring to more than his help in the kitchen.

A day or two later he noticed her chatting to her neighbour, Geraint, and saw how she enjoyed his company. When she wandered back to finish unpegging her washing, he went to help her, and said quietly: "There are many kinds of love," making her jump. She tutted, frowning at him, but he noticed her looking speculatively across to Geraint's house before she turned to follow him inside.

His fitness improved. A week after Athos' visit he was able to complete four circuits of the square without undue pain, and was contemplating saddling Nuit for a trial ride. His ribs still hurt all the time, and sometimes pain flared up his side sharply enough to make him gasp, but Ninette assured him that it was a sign that the nerves were reconnecting so he supposed it was a good thing.

He knew it was only a matter of time before Athos would return to see if he was fit enough to ride north with them, so he began to prepare. He collected Nuit's tack and spent a whole morning stripping the bridle down, scrubbing her girth and saddle-cloth and oiling the leather until it was supple and gleaming. He retrieved his weapons from under the bed and spent an hour cleaning his pistol and sharpening his sword. That evening he also made sure to chat casually with the children about returning to his unit, telling them he was looking forward to sitting around a campfire with his friends and sleeping under the stars again. He wanted them to see it as a positive thing and not something to regret. Ninette smiled gratefully at him, knowing he was doing his best to prepare them for his imminent departure.

After breakfast the next morning Norbert begged d'Artagnan to show him some more moves, swishing his wooden sword madly in the air. d'Artagnan could see Ninette's anxious face peering at them through the window so he hid his smile at the boy's antics, and patted the seat next to him. Norbert's face fell and he glared through the window at his mother. "You'll be gone soon and I want to be a good fighter!" He stomped his foot for emphasis, but sat anyway, looking surly.

d'Artagnan thought for a moment. "The thing is, Norbert, being a good soldier isn't all about fighting." Norbert swung his legs vigorously but said nothing, still looking rebellious. "It's a lot more than that – and I'm not sure if you're old enough to understand it yet."

That did it: Norbert's head snapped up and he turned big blue eyes on d'Artagnan earnestly. "Of course I am!" he cried indignantly.

d'Artagnan managed a dubious look and allowed Norbert to persuade him to give up some more secrets. Ninette smothered a smile and turned back to her chores.

He told Norbert about guard duty and patrolling, tracking and stalking, and how to assess for dangers. "Head over heart. That's what Captain Athos always told me when I was training."

"What did he mean?"

d'Artagnan considered. "Well, like not rushing headlong into a fight you can't win. Say you come across half a dozen bandits, and – "

"Bandits?"

"Yes. Baddies."

"Don't you mean Spaniards?"

"The Spanish won't always be the bad guys, Norbert. Once the war is over they'll be our friends again. A 'baddie' is – um, well, anyone who tries to use force to hurt other people." He paused, watching while Norbert processed this.

"Like a bully?"

d'Artagnan nodded. "Exactly that. And most of the time we try not to kill, unless there's no option. Mostly we arrest people, put them in jail where they can't hurt anyone again. But the point is that if you're on your own against big numbers, there's no point trying to fight them. Better to get help than get killed. Do you see?"

"Have you had to do that – to sneak off and get help?"

"Yes, often. Porthos is the best at sneaking mind you – he's one of the biggest Musketeers, but he can move so quietly you wouldn't know he was there, half the time."

"What about Aramis? What's he good at?"

d'Artagnan laughed. He'd told the children all about his closest friends and they loved hearing more. "Aramis is good at everything. He's got the best eyesight, he's the best marksman in the unit – probably in the whole army. And he's a wonderful medic."

"What about stalking, is he good at that?"

"Pretty good. And he's great at whistling."

Norbert's scoff showed what he thought about that as a talent, and d'Artagnan hastened to explain. "He invented our signals, like the danger signal." He gave a short, fluting whistle which sounded exactly like a bird's trill. Norbert tried, and failed, to replicate it.

"Try again. Listen!"

Once Norbert had mastered an approximation of the call, d'Artagnan explained it further. "We use that if one of us sees something out of place. It's a kind of 'alert' message, really."

"What else?"

"Well, there's this one." He gave a short, low whistle with a downturn at the end. "That means something like danger - get down, now!"

Norbert found that one easier to copy, and practiced it enthusiastically. "What else?"

"This one." d'Artagnan gave a single 'peep'. "That means eyes on me, or leave it to me."

"What else?"

d'Artagnan laughed. "That's all really. You can use those three calls for pretty much everything."

Norbert looked unconvinced. "What about if you find some bandits and need to surround them, or you're going to go in first, or..."

d'Artagnan cut him off, guessing it was going to be a long sentence otherwise. "We can't have too many different whistles or the baddies would notice them. Those three are usually enough, especially if we can see each other – we can use hand signals too." For the next few minutes, Norbert plied d'Artagnan with scenarios and together they worked out signals and whistles to deal with each situation.

Eventually Ninette rescued him by sending Norbert in to get changed. d'Artagnan saw she had put on a pale brown dress that he'd not seen before, and he looked enquiringly at her. "We're going to the church to help decorate it for Christmas."

d'Artagnan was startled. He hadn't considered what time of year it was, beyond noticing that winter was taking a firm hold. "What's the date?" he asked. Ninette came to sit beside him. "It's Christmas Eve. We'll be going to the crib service this afternoon – you are welcome to join us. The men are in the bottom field; they're slaughtering a pig and dressing it, and preparing the fire pit, then we all eat together after the service."

"I hadn't realised."

He looked miserable and she effortlessly identified the reason. "d'Artagnan, if you're worried about gifts, please don't. None of us have much to spare so it's mostly about spending time together, and eating well. I've made new clothes for the children, and we've been given some toys by older children who've grown out of them, but that's it. And anyway, you've given us so much." She saw his face screw up in puzzlement, and tried to explain. "You've been – like a breath of fresh air. The children have loved having you around. And you mended my chair..." He laughed, thinking of the chair with the wobbly leg that he'd sorted out by fashioning a tiny plug of wood to secure it more firmly in the base of the seat. It had taken him all of two minutes to fix. She patted him on the knee and rose. "And you woke me up."

He looked up, surprised, and she smiled. "You know what I mean. Come on, children."

He watched as they crossed the square together, and noticed her neighbour change trajectory to escort them to the chapel door. A nice man, Geraint. He smiled, and gathered his weapons to stow them back in his room, deciding he would have time to carve some new drying hooks for her herbs before they returned.

* * *

He was startled therefore, to hear the sound of panting sobs coming rapidly closer less than half an hour later. Rising stiffly from the table in the main room he moved to the door but before he could open it Norbert had burst in and barrelled straight into d'Artagnan, nearly knocking him off his feet.

"Whoa! What's up little one?" d'Artagnan peeled Norbert's skinny frame from his leg and peered into his tear-streaked face. Silently the boy held up a small object in his quivering hand, his eyes brimming with tears as d'Artagnan bent to inspect it.

It was a beautifully carved donkey made from a dark wood, its long ears pricked forward, its head slightly lowered as if looking at something; delicate knife-strokes suggested the thick coat and scruffy mane. d'Artagnan was so impressed by the exquisite workmanship that it was a moment before he noticed that one of the legs was broken, leaving a ragged stump of wood.

"What happened?" he asked gently, drawing Norbert to him for a consoling hug.

"He was helping to place the figures in the stable in the church, ready for the arrival of the baby Jesus, and he tripped." Ninette had caught up with her distraught son, and came in, holding out the missing leg. "I don't suppose...?"

d'Artagnan picked the leg from her outstretched palm and considered it. Norbert looked up, his hiccoughing sobs ceasing for a moment. The break was ragged, not smooth, but that could be of benefit. He turned the limb carefully until it fitted snugly against the stump, and nodded to himself.

"I'll need something to stick it. Norbert, could you go to Nuit and ask her very nicely if you could pull one of her hairs? One from her mane should be long enough. Can you do that?" Norbert nodded, his eyes wide, and shot off.

Ninette came forward. "Can you fix it? My husband carved it so it's a bit special to us."

d'Artagnan was already heading for the log pile, examining each one until he found what he wanted. "I'll have a go. Can you spare an egg?"

By the time Norbert returned, carefully holding one of Nuit's long black hairs in his fist, d'Artagnan had set a small pan onto the fire and was melting some pine resin he'd scraped from one of the logs. He'd put a few drops of linseed oil into the pan from Ninette's medical supplies, and took it off the fire to add a little egg yolk, mixing it carefully with the point of his knife. Then he blew on a tiny ball of the sticky mixture to cool it, and applied it to the donkey's stump with his fingers, before carefully fitting the broken limb into place. Then he wrapped the horse hair tightly around the break, overlapping it like a miniature bandage, twisting the loose end into a loop and gently pulling it so it tucked neatly under the wrapped hair, then trimming both ends with the blade. He held it up to the light, then smoothed a little more of the mixture onto the join and held it in place, smoothing it with his fingers while it cooled.

Norbert was watching every movement with wide eyes, and when d'Artagnan held the donkey up for inspection he crowed with delight.

"Careful with it; it'll still be fragile until it's completely hardened," cautioned d'Artagnan as he placed the figure in Norbert's hand.

Ninette smoothed her son's hair with her fingers, then guided him towards the door. "You go on my love but don't run! I'll be back up there in a minute."

They watched him walk carefully across the square, then suddenly veer off to his right and start running along the path leading towards Nuit's field, quickly dropping back to a guilty walk when he remembered his precious cargo.

d'Artagnan laughed. "It looks like he's going to show Nuit."

Ninette nodded, smiling her thanks at him as she started to tidy, putting the egg shell by the hearth to dry ready for crushing and feeding back to the hens, and taking the linseed oil bottle back into d'Artagnan's room. d'Artagnan poured hot water into the pan he'd used to heat the make-shift glue mixture and melted it again. "You go on. I'll clean this out then I'll come up and have a look at the decorations," he told her.

He followed her out and tipped the lumpy contents of the pan into the ditch to the side of the house, then plucked a tuft of grass to clean it out. Heading back inside, he saw Ninette disappearing into the chapel and Norbert returning from Nuit's field. He waved as Norbert headed right towards the chapel, and turned to go back in with the pan, but stopped as he heard hoof-beats approaching from the track leading down into the village. His heart leapt as he realised it could be Athos returning, and he waited, seeing Norbert do the same on the other side of the square.

He frowned as the horse appeared over the crest of the hill and started down the track towards the village. It wasn't Athos: he would recognise both man and horse instantly. Nor was it Porthos, or any of the Musketeer regiment, he thought. A prickle of unease settled in his stomach and he moved by reflex back into the shadow of the house as he saw a second horse breast the horizon, then a third, and a fourth...

The first rider was already half-way down the track when he spotted the flash of red on the man's uniform and knew for sure that he was looking at a Spanish patrol. " _Putain_!" he swore to himself. Why were they here? What did they want, riding brazenly into a French village in broad daylight?

Even as he thought this, taking another step backwards into the open doorway of Ninette's cottage, he picked out the double-silhouette on one of the horses and realised he was looking at an injured man, held on his horse by a second rider.

Everything seemed to happen very quickly then. He heard the chapel door creak open and saw Ninette reappear, looking around for Norbert then noticing the approaching horses. He saw her close the door behind her, smooth her dress and start towards the lead rider, clearly ready to greet him. The first horse stopped and the rider dismounted, watching as Ninette approached.

d'Artagnan's heart was pounding and thoughts raced through his head. He had to stay out of sight: as soon as they saw his wounds, his clothes, his boots, they would surely recognise him for a soldier and he was in no fit state to fight so many. But he couldn't leave Ninette to deal with them alone, and he had to warn Norbert to stay out of sight. He didn't think the rider had noticed the small lad yet, but couldn't call out without drawing attention to himself...

Inspiration struck and without hesitation he whistled the thin, downwards call he'd taught Norbert only an hour or so earlier. It meant 'Get Down!' He could only hope Norbert heard him, and remembered it.

Norbert had started to walk towards his mother but was still a way down the track on the other side of the square, for now out of view of the soldiers. d'Artagnan repeated the whistle and this time Norbert looked over to the cottage. d'Artagnan risked a sharp hand gesture, waving at him to get down, get hidden.

Norbert's mouth dropped open and he froze. The other riders were slowing now, coming to a halt in the centre of the square, near the well, where the first man stood talking to Ninette. d'Artagnan saw her look over to her cottage and he instinctively pressed himself further back into the dark interior. Just in time, for the leader followed her gaze and then barked a sharp order to his men. d'Artagnan felt his stomach clench at the sound of the language he had come to hate so much during his captivity. He glanced back at Norbert, desperately hoping to find the boy pressed to the ground or running away, but he was still standing staring stupidly at d'Artagnan, his hands cradled carefully in front of him.

They were pulling the injured man off the horse now and Ninette was leading the way towards the cottage. d'Artagnan was out of time. He risked a final call – this time the fluting whistle followed by a single note, meaning 'Leave it to me!' and then he stepped quickly backwards into the living room. Where were his weapons? He raced into the bedroom, keeping low in case he could be seen through the window. He could hear their voices getting louder as he grabbed his belts, pistol and sword, then checked quickly around as he backed out of the room. His doublet! It was folded neatly on the chair, the pauldron clearly visible. He dived to snatch it up then scrambled out of the room, dodged through the living room, wrestled briefly with the window latch and hurled himself through it without hesitation.

He landed hard on the log pile stacked against the rear of the cottage, grunting as the wind was knocked out of him. Logs slithered and rolled as he twisted his body painfully to the ground, gathering his weapons under him and getting onto hands and knees. He looked up as a hand reached out of the open window, expecting to see the Spanish soldier pointing a pistol at his head and cursing that he'd cleaned his own pistol but not re-loaded it.

To his utter relief he caught a flash of Ninette's outline as she casually closed the window, instructing someone to lay the injured man in the chair by the fire while she got her medical bag.

d'Artagnan scrabbled past the log pile and pressed himself against the side of the house, his heart pounding and his limbs trembling with adrenaline. Would they leave the injured man and head off? French patrols had been checking this part of the border thoroughly; surely they wouldn't risk being caught in this area in daylight? But it might depend how badly the man was wounded and whether he was an officer; they might stay with him while she was treating him, in which case it was entirely possible the villagers would be at risk. They might hold the women and children hostage in case of discovery, and certainly the men would be in danger when they returned from setting up the hog roast.

He fumbled on his belt for ammunition and gunpowder, then cursed again as he remembered putting both pouches on a high shelf this morning to make sure they were out of reach of the curious children. _Merde_! Viciously he shoved his useless pistol behind the logs, stuffed his doublet after it, and peered cautiously around the side of the cottage.

From here he should have been able to see Norbert, but there was no sign of the lad. Had he finally got the message and hidden?

He inched around the side of the cottage, trying to ignore his aching shoulder, the pain from his thigh and ribs and the soreness of the new skin on his forearms and hands as he dropped to a crawl on the dry gravelly soil.

In the square all the men had now dismounted. Some were drinking and washing in a bucket drawn from the well; others had spread out and were starting to investigate the other houses, their pistols drawn.

The door of the cottage was still open and he could hear the man barking questions at Ninette about where everyone was, and her soft voice answering calmly. She didn't mention the chapel and d'Artagnan silently praised her, but knew it would not be long before the Christmas preparations were finished and the children and women would emerge to find their village overrun with Spanish soldiers.

He peered around the side of the cottage again, counting ten men as well as their leader and the injured man. He sat against the wall, leaning his head back, and tried to think. Could he get down to the field where the men were working, without being seen? He could warn the men and come up with some kind of plan. He slid back to the rear of the cottage, loath to desert Ninette but already working out a route even as he hid his sword and belt in the log pile where he'd stashed his pistol and doublet. If he was noticed, he hoped he would pass as a villager but if they found his sword they would know instantly that he was a soldier, and he didn't doubt they would kill him.

He'd dropped to his stomach and started to crawl towards the ditch running behind the cottage when he heard a commotion from the square and recognised Celeste's voice, calling for her mother.

There was a sudden silence in the house, then a barked command in Spanish and a muffled yelp from Ninette. d'Artagnan instantly changed direction and scrambled quickly towards the front of the cottage again.

Celeste was running into the square from the direction of the chapel, calling anxiously for her mother. The soldiers lounging around the well had stood up and one walked towards her; she slowed, looking at him suspiciously, just as Ninette and the Spaniard came out of the cottage. He had a firm grip on Ninette's arm and was clearly stopping her from going towards Celeste. d'Artagnan felt his blood boil as he watched one of the others catch Celeste by the waist as she tried to run past them, and yank her roughly off her feet.

Ninette called out to her sharply. "Celeste, don't worry! Maman's fine, I'm just looking after a sick soldier." But Celeste was clearly panicking, and struggling to get free, kicking out at the man's shins as he held her against his chest. He cursed as her foot caught him and to his horror d'Artagnan saw him raise a fist to strike her.

He was on his feet and around the corner before he'd had time to think. "Don't touch her!" he called, holding his arms out to the side, eyes fixed on Celeste, trying to keep his voice calm and unthreatening. "Celeste, it's fine, relax sweetheart, it's all good."

He stopped dead as half a dozen pistols swung his way and there was a volley of clicks as firing mechanisms were cocked. "I'm unarmed. Don't shoot," he called quickly, slouching to look as un-military as possible and turning slightly to face the man with Ninette. She looked surprisingly calm, her gaze flicking between d'Artagnan and Celeste, but he could see she was trembling from head to foot.

The leader called out something to the men surrounding Celeste, and one of them answered by pointing at the chapel. Another sharp command sent four of the men running up towards the chapel, clearly intending to search it.

d'Artagnan's heart was pounding as he tried to assess the situation but he was distracted by Celeste who was now hanging limply in her captor's arms, tears streaming silently down her face. Ninette took a step towards her and was yanked sharply back, causing her to yelp in surprise which set Celeste off crying again. There was a sharp exchange of words between the two men and the man holding Celeste shook her impatiently, trying to shut her up. Ninette protested and d'Artagnan knew he had to do something before the situation exploded.

"We're no threat to you. Please don't hurt them. Ninette is a good herbswoman and she'll help your man, then you can be on your way. We can feed you – can't we feed them, Ninette?"

He was saying anything that came into his head in an attempt to turn their attention to him, and it seemed to work. The man holding Ninette dropped her arm and told her to go back inside and look after her patient, giving her a push when she hesitated.

"It's okay, Celeste will be fine," d'Artagnan reassured her as the man started towards him, still pointing his pistol straight at him. d'Artagnan tried to keep calm and look unthreatening but he could see the other soldier eyeing Celeste appreciatively as he set her feet back on the ground, still with his arm around her trembling figure.

"Where is everyone? Where are the men?" The Spaniard stopped a couple of feet away, the pistol unwaveringly pointing at his head.

"They're preparing a pig for roasting." d'Artagnan waved a hand vaguely in the direction from which he'd appeared, which happened to be in the opposite direction from the field where the men really were.

"Why aren't you with them?"

"I came back for my knife." Immediately the man issued a command and one of the few left at the well ran over, tucking his own pistol in his belt so he could search d'Artagnan, making no attempt to be gentle but finding no weapon.

"Where is the knife?"

"I haven't got it yet – I heard you, and – look, please, let the girl go. She's frightened."

The man hesitated, then a shout from those at the chapel drew everyone's attention. The men had been prowling around the building trying to open the doors without success and they were now shrugging and shouting down that there was no one there. d'Artagnan tried not to let his surprise show but his heart sped up as he tried to work out what was happening. Celeste had come running out, but didn't look surprised to see the soldiers: why had she come out? Did she know ... Norbert! Had he warned them, somehow? That might explain why the doors were bolted from the inside; Celeste must have slipped out to find her mother.

He'd taken his attention off the leader and now he paid for it as the man suddenly lunged at him, grabbing him around the neck and dragging him backwards, his feet scrabbling to keep up.

"Where are the men with the pig? How many men are there?"

d'Artagnan pointed again past the cottage, trying to remember what was in that direction. No houses, that was for sure; he thought it was safe to send them that way. "Down by the river – on the other side. There are about fifteen men, all ages. It's only a small village." Hopefully it would take them a while before they found a place to cross, searched, and realised they were in the wrong place. He hoped he wasn't making a horrible mistake by misleading them, but he couldn't imagine what would happen if they found the village men. They were tough farming folk and today carried knives; they would not take kindly to the treatment meted out to Ninette and Celeste already, but the soldiers were well-armed and tense, and he could see things turning nasty very quickly. Maybe, if he could keep the soldiers away from the villagers for a bit longer, he could come up with a better plan before anyone got hurt.

At another command five of the soldiers set off in the direction d'Artagnan had indicated, leaving the other four men wandering away from the chapel, poking around in the other houses.

"Please let the girl go. She's only eight years old – "

" _Silencio_!" He gasped as the arm tightened around his throat, and had to force himself to drop his hands. Every fibre in his body wanted to resist rather than acquiesce but he couldn't risk it, not with Celeste still so close.

The pistol was jammed against his temple and his spine was being bent backwards, which pulled horribly on his healing ribs. He could feel the sweat beading on his brow and tried to control his breathing. His captor leaned over his shoulder to hiss into d'Artagnan's face: "Where is everyone else? The women, the other children? Where did the girl come from?"

"I – don't know. They were collecting things to decorate the church..."

"Why is the church locked?"

"I don't know." He couldn't think of any plausible explanation and it wasn't enough; the man started to shove d'Artagnan over to where his compatriot was still holding Celeste so he could question her.

"Were you in the church?"

Celeste nodded, biting her lip.

"Who else is in there?"

d'Artagnan locked his gaze on her, willing her to keep quiet. His body was jammed up against the Spaniard's and he didn't dare to shake his head, but he narrowed his eyes in warning, and after so long without words when he first arrived she read his expression correctly; to his relief she shook her head mutely.

The soldier holding her grabbed her chin and twisted it violently so he could see her face. "Tell the truth!" he yelled.

Her face crumpled, and d'Artagnan saw red. "Leave her alone!" he yelled. "You're hurting her!" Without warning, their leader loosened his hold slightly to give him room to swing the butt of the pistol at d'Artagnan's head, slamming into him with enough force to snap his head sideways. Pain exploded behind his eyes and then everything dimmed.

* * *

He came to his senses on his back, limbs sprawled haphazardly. He groaned, squinting against the watery sun, and brought a shaky hand to his head. Instantly there was a volley of words over his head, then something hard pushed at his shirt. He blinked and tried to focus. There was a booted toe flicking at the open neck of his shirt. He looked down and was filled with dread as he realised the shirt had flopped open when he fell, revealing the barely-healed wound in his shoulder which was all too clearly the result of a shot.

He looked up and found the muzzle trained unwaveringly on his face.

"What is this?"

"It's... " His throat was dry and his voice came out in a croak. "I was shot."

Abruptly the Spaniard produced his knife and slashed the rest of his shirt open, revealing the bandage that still covered the wound in his side. The knife sliced through the bandage, d'Artagnan trying not to flinch as he used the tip of the blade to push the ends of bandage aside. There was a silence, then another question.

"When did this happen?"

"A few weeks ago."

Suddenly the Spaniard stooped and yanked at d'Artagnan's arm, hauling him to his feet. He shot a glance at Celeste, still standing trembling, her eyes never leaving his. He had to get her out of their hands. "Please, let her go to her mother. She's scared."

"You are a soldier." It was not a question this time, and d'Artagnan barely hesitated before nodding. There seemed no point in dissembling.

Another pause, then something obviously occurred to the man; his breath shortened and he put the pistol back to d'Artagnan's temple. "Where were you fighting?"

Oh.

d'Artagnan suddenly saw the extreme danger he was in. Less than three weeks since the battle at Candanchú fort, with recent injuries, recovering within a few leagues of it: was there any point in denying his involvement?

He took in a long slow breath, met the man's gaze head on, and confirmed what he sensed the man already knew. "Candanchú."

The response was instant as the man swore and tightened his grip on d'Artagnan's neck. "Candanchú? I was there!" he spat. He called to his compatriot. The other man let go of Celeste, who ran straight past d'Artagnan, sobbing, and disappeared inside her house, but d'Artagnan had no time to feel relief as the man came around behind d'Artagnan and grabbed his arms, pulling them behind his back, then deftly wrapped a belt around his elbows and forced him to his knees.

d'Artagnan shut his eyes for a moment, then resolutely lifted his chin again. His heart was pounding now, as well as his head, and the position was making the barely-healed muscles in his side scream in protest, but all he could think was that at least Celeste wasn't going to have to watch him being executed.

The man stepped closer, removing the pistol from d'Artagnan's temple. Hope flickered for a heartbeat then vanished as he jammed the muzzle of his pistol viciously under d'Artagnan's jaw, tipping his head backwards. "I lost my _brother_ at Candanchú!" he hissed.

" _So did_ _I!_ " d'Artagnan retorted furiously, anger and grief flaring in him as he thought instantly of Fouchard, who had been his friend and ally in looking after Athos ever since the beginning of the war, and of Metier, who had not particularly liked d'Artagnan but who had still taken his guard duty the morning of the flogging, and of all the other brave men he'd served with who had fallen in that place.

He swallowed past the lump in his throat and blinked rapidly to clear his eyes. He didn't want this man to think he was frightened. If he was to die here, after everything he'd been through, he would keep his dignity. So he composed himself to meet the man's eyes again. And saw a glimmer of something new: a look of compassion instead of anger; understanding instead of anxiety; humanity instead of fear. For a moment d'Artagnan dared to hope that their unexpected connection might stay the man's hand.

And then he saw the man's arm jerk as pain exploded in his jaw, and the sound of the shot was the last thing he heard before everything faded to black.

* * *

 _Oh. Yes. I'd forgotten about this one. I'd say I'm sorry but I don't think you'd believe me!_

 _Egg-yolk and resin were used to make glue in mediaeval times. I have no idea whether there was a "crib service" tradition in the Catholic church then, but it's common in many churches so I thought, why not? It's very sweet; my son took part for many years and all the kids loved helping to put the figures into the stable so I could just see d'Artagnan's new best friends doing the same._


	23. The Things I Said I'd Be

_Final chapter! plus a small epilogue to follow shortly._

 **Chapter 21: The Things I said I'd be**

Five days was nowhere near long enough to recover from his injuries at Candanchú, but he'd had little choice but to be in the saddle almost constantly since sending d'Artagnan to recuperate in Spinau, now that the regiment had been split with half their number joining the northern forces and the other half tasked with patrolling the border. Moving camp daily in the hunt for any stray Spanish forces while the bulk of the southern army pushed the main forces back across the border, the remaining Musketeers ranged far and wide in small groups during the day, and at night made rendezvous at pre-arranged sites. Well used to masking any weakness with activity, and a good enough horseman to ride using mostly body weight and legs to guide Roger, Athos thought he had able to hide the extent of his debilitation from most of his men.

Porthos, of course, was a different matter, and Athos was aware of his old friend watching him like a hawk. Athos had lost count of the number of times he'd found his horse fed, groomed and ready for him when he'd headed over to the horse lines, or had emerged blinking from his frost-rimmed blankets in the morning to see a cup of steaming mead standing ready to warm his hands. His pistol had developed a habit of cleaning itself and his sword didn't even need sharpening as somehow he never got close enough to the action to wield it.

No one mentioned why this was happening. He never caught them talking, or watching him – that was Porthos' job alone. He knew Athos would tolerate such molly-coddling from no one else and, in his typical way, was shielding the men from the tongue-lashing they would certainly suffer if Athos caught them sheltering him.

What Porthos couldn't do for him was sleep. Athos put its lack down to the uncertainty of their position, poised between two battlefronts, waiting for the order to move, missing half their number and with no permanent base. To himself he admitted that part of it was worry for d'Artagnan, having last seen him looking translucent with blood loss, barely able to speak or even draw breath without curling up in pain. Even though his fever had broken before they parted, Athos knew he had a long recovery ahead of him and the look of loss in his eyes as they'd ridden off had nearly unhinged him, but he knew Porthos felt the same concern and there was no shame in it. What he wouldn't acknowledge, as a reason for his sleeplessness, was the depth of his exhaustion, as the strain of holding his proud, independent men together in the middle of a vast, autocratic and unyielding army was momentarily lifted from him. And overlaying that bone-deep fatigue was the constant pain from his slowly-healing injuries. His forearm throbbed incessantly as the bone began to knit, his chest ached abominably and when he lay down at night he could find no position in which his whole upper body did not feel as if it were on fire. Exhaustion, pain and worry combined to sap his strength and leave him feeling weak, frustrated and irritable.

He'd welcomed the distraction of the newly commissioned musketeers when they caught up with the regiment a week after leaving Candanchú. The newcomers were wide-eyed with awe at being within spitting distance of a real battlefront and in the close proximity of some of the heroes of the Garrison. They outdid themselves trying to impress with their sword skills and fell over their feet to volunteer for the smallest duty, and Athos relished their ignorance of recent events.

They were mostly well-drilled and competent soldiers, but utterly without battle-sense, and needed constant supervision as they adjusted to camp life on the frontline. He and Porthos had their work cut out to knock them into shape in the short time before they would be needed at the front, and though he relished the diversion, it only added to his worries. After he'd reduced one poor lad to tears by bawling him out for walking around camp without his pistol Porthos had lost patience with him completely, and confiscated his saddle so that he would be forced to rest.

Athos winced as he remembered stalking around the camp in an icy rage, demanding his saddle back. In the end one of the newcomers had caved in and pointed, white-faced, to where Porthos had wedged it into the branches of a tree some twenty feet above his head. He'd turned to find Porthos leaning on a tree-trunk, arms crossed, telling him smugly that when he was fit enough to get it down himself, he would be fit enough to ride. There had been a hushed, expectant silence as everyone awaited his reaction, but he'd surprised many of them – including himself – by seeing the funny side and starting to laugh, a sound many of those watching had never heard before. He'd spent the next two days in their makeshift camp obediently resting and even reading a little before Porthos relented and returned his saddle, and he had to admit he felt better for it.

It was after this incident that he had taken the opportunity of their proximity to Spinau to visit d'Artagnan, and he'd returned to camp that evening looking more relaxed than Porthos had seen him in weeks. Porthos still made sure he did no chores or heavy work around the camp, but he knew Athos had turned a corner and when the orders finally caught up with them to head north both men were aware of a sense of relief. The period of marking time was nearly over. All they had to do was collect d'Artagnan and hope he was fit to travel north with them.

Athos had pulled rank shamelessly over Porthos who was equally anxious to see d'Artagnan, and left him supervising the departure of the new musketeers to join the remains of the southern army before the rest headed north. Arranging to meet them on the Toulouse road at midday, Athos headed off alone down the track towards the tiny village of Spinau in contemplative mood.

He hadn't yet recovered full strength, but it would take them the best part of a week to reach the rest of the regiment in Lorraine and he found himself looking forward to the journey, knowing that for a few days at least the most they would have to worry about was finding food and somewhere to camp each night. He felt slightly guilty at leaving Porthos to supervise the breaking of camp, but much as he loved his brothers he was at heart a solitary man, and one of the many things he missed about life in Paris was the ability to lose himself in the city when he craved solitude. So close to the border everything was done in company, even their morning ablutions, and the solo ride to check on d'Artagnan's progress last time had been a real luxury.

His pulse quickened at the thought of seeing the younger Musketeer again. He'd missed him terribly, not just in the last couple of weeks but for months, it seemed. The Gascon had been uncharacteristically subdued since his return from convalescence in Paris, but in the last week before Candanchú they'd seen sparks of the old d'Artagnan and, in spite of the barriers between them and everything that was still unspoken, he felt more optimistic that they could recapture their old relationship. Which was one he needed and longed for. It was a very lonely existence, being a captain in wartime, and he ached for the uncomplicated companionship of those few here, like Porthos and d'Artagnan, who had known him before as simply Athos.

* * *

Lost in thought, it took him a moment to take in the unexpected scene as he crested the hill. But when he saw the white-shirted figure kneeling in the centre of the square, he was off his horse in an instant. In his peripheral vision he was aware of the Spanish soldiers – five, he thought – searching the river meadows off to his right, and others foraging in the houses around the square. But he had eyes only for the man with his arms bound behind him and a pistol buried in his windswept dark-hair.

He wasn't aware of racing forwards at a crouch to get a better angle, or of loading his pistol, or of calculating the distance or the wind direction, although he did all of these things. All he was aware of was the defiance evident in d'Artagnan's slender frame and the blazing challenge in his eyes, even from this distance, as he looked up into the face of the man about to execute him. And when that man stepped closer to d'Artagnan and wrapped a fist in his shirt, jamming the pistol under his chin, Athos didn't stop to consider the risk he was taking – the risk that he might miss and hit d'Artagnan, or that even if his shot was true the impact might cause the soldier's finger to tighten on his trigger and d'Artagnan would die with him. He certainly didn't think about what might happen afterwards, to him or d'Artagnan, when the other soldiers reacted to his shot. All he knew, as he breathed out and squeezed the trigger oh so gently, was that he could not stand by and watch d'Artagnan die.

He knew, as soon as he fired, that it was a great shot. But when both figures jerked and crashed to the ground he found his legs giving way in the sudden and complete fear that he had, after all, killed d'Artagnan instead of saving him, for why else would he be sprawled now on his back under the body of his would-be executioner, a dark stain coating his face?

Athos' lurching fear drove him to his knees in despair in spite of his military training, and that probably saved his life as an answering shot from another soldier in the square whistled over his head. He watched his fingers deftly reloading his pistol with fascination, feeling like an observer as he took careful aim and shot the man down before the other could finish reloading.

Slowly, so slowly, he rose to his feet again, watching in a daze as the other four soldiers appeared from various houses they'd been looting, shouting and firing randomly at shadows, it seemed. There were answering shouts from the meadow, and then a sudden roar as a bunch of newcomers raced up the track from another direction and burst into the square.

Athos carried on walking down the track into the square on wooden legs, a mere observer of the chaotic scene as the newcomers – many bare-chested and, bizarrely, apparently coated in blood – laid into the Spanish intruders with knives and fists, displaying more gusto than skill, but it was enough to terrify the weary soldiers and they were quickly overwhelmed.

He was bellowing instructions even before he'd reached the village square, automatically taking command. Without pausing, or taking his eyes off where d'Artagnan lay unmoving, half under the Spaniard who'd held the pistol to his head, he got the villagers tying up their captives and sent some to search the river meadow where he'd seen other soldiers as he arrived, all the time wondering what he'd walked into. The village men obeyed him easily even amongst the confusion, his uniform and air of weary authority overcoming any objections they might have had. Someone ran to the church and found the priest opening the doors cautiously at the sound of friendly voices. And as Athos' steps slowed, unable to take in the sight of the Spanish soldier draped across d'Artagnan's blood-stained body, Ninette was suddenly there, flinging herself to the ground next to them, yanking frantically at the man lying on top of d'Artagnan and calling for someone to help her.

Athos was mere feet away but could not bring himself to step closer as he watched willing hands haul the Spaniard's body away. The hole in the man's head was testimony to the quality of Athos' shot but he could not have been less interested. All he cared about was d'Artagnan, still lying motionless– no, wait. His head had rolled to the side... Was he _alive_?

He wasn't aware of moving; he was simply there, ripping off the belt binding d'Artagnan's arms, grabbing the cloth from Ninette's hands to swab the blood from his face as the deep brown eyes flickered open. He blinked slowly, looking confused, then his focus seemed to sharpen. "Athos?"

Athos let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding, and raised a shaky smile. "Yes. Christ, d'Artagnan, you bloody scared me!"

"What...?" d'Artagnan flailed arms and legs as he tried to get up.

"Steady!" Athos put out a hand to restrain him but Ninette sat back on her heels and told Athos to help d'Artagnan to sit up.

"Most of the blood is not his," she told him when he hesitated. "The ball clipped his jaw but nothing's broken. He was probably knocked out when the Spaniard fell on him."

d'Artagnan put a hand to his chin and winced when he touched a raw patch oozing blood. "I didn't think he would shoot, Athos. He was at Candanchú."

Athos couldn't see the link between these statements, but had no time to enquire as d'Artagnan's awareness was rushing back, and with it a flood of questions.

"Celeste? Is she okay?"

Ninette nodded, squeezing his arm. "She's fine; she's with Geraint."

"Did she –?"

"No, I was holding her. She didn't see the shot."

d'Artagnan nodded but still looked anxiously around. "Norbert? Where is he? Is he safe?"

"He's fine! d'Artagnan, we're all fine. It's okay, no one was hurt."

There was a sudden squeal and the small boy Athos remembered from his last visit raced up and hurled himself onto d'Artagnan's back, nearly knocking him over. "I heard your signal, d'Artagnan! I remembered what to do and I warned 'em and they barricaded the chapel doors, an' then I crawled along the ditch, an' I got the men, and we whopped 'em, didn't we? It was exciting! Father Pierre says I'm a hero! Why are you covered in blood? Did you get shot? Why is Captain Athos here?"

His words were tumbling out so fast that it had taken him a while to notice the state d'Artagnan was in, but Ninette stepped in quickly, urging him to get off d'Artagnan's back. "It's not his blood, don't worry. Now why don't you go and take your sister in to Celeste. But stay out of d'Artagnan's room, please."

He ran off to round up Suzette who was being kept distracted from the turmoil by having a ride on Geraint's shoulders. "Right, let's get you cleaned up." Ninette raised an eyebrow and Athos found himself hurrying to obey her unspoken command, helping her pull the wobbly Gascon to his feet.

"Are you sure he's okay?" Athos asked doubtfully, watching d'Artagnan swallow convulsively. Ninette was probing his jaw carefully and Athos could see the deep gouge and blackened skin where he'd been hit by the musket ball. He'd been so lucky! Another fraction of an inch and he'd have a broken jaw, or a ball buried in his brain...

He was surprised to find her reassuring hand on his arm. "He was knocked out earlier, as well, so he's a bit whoozy, but he'll be fine," Ninette told him calmly.

Athos nodded, and helped her steer him into her cottage. d'Artagnan might be 'fine' but he was unsteady on his feet, and Athos could see blood congealing on his temple from a gash that looked puffy and bruised. "What happened?"

They seated d'Artagnan by the fire and Ninette fetched water and cloths while he explained the events of the last hour as best he could. He got to the part where he was on his knees, and stopped to look at Athos. "Was that you? You shot him?"

Athos nodded, his eyes pained as he remembered the moment he'd had to take the chance of that – literally – long shot.

"I didn't see you... How are you even _here_?"

"I was riding in to get you. Saw it all happening. There wasn't time to get closer." He shook his head as if shaking the memories away. "How the hell do you _get_ yourself into these bloody situations?"

d'Artagnan ignored his outburst expertly. "Coming to get me? You've got the orders then?"

"Yes, we're meeting Porthos and the others at the crossroads. I wasn't expecting ... quite this welcome."

"Right." d'Artagnan ducked his head away from Ninette's probing fingers and stood up. "I'll get my weapons..." He looked around vaguely as if trying to remember where they were.

"Do you have another shirt?" Athos sounded amused and d'Artagnan looked down at himself, realising for the first time just how much blood had coated his bare chest and ripped shirt.

"This isn't mine – "

"Some of it is. Take your time. I'll get Nuit saddled up."

"Norbert can show you where her tack is, and my weapons are out the back, under the log pile. I'll get the rest of my stuff from my room – "

"Wait! I almost forgot." Ninette looked mortified. "Athos, there's a body in there."

"A ...?"

"The man they wanted me to treat. He died within a few minutes of getting here. What shall we do with him?"

"And the two you shot outside, and the prisoners," d'Artagnan reminded him.

"I'll send some of my men down to collect the prisoners and take them to Oloron-Sainte-Marie. They can catch us up on the road. As for the dead men – perhaps they could be buried here? Or somewhere nearby, if you don't want them in your own cemetery? Or I could arrange for someone to collect the bodies ..."

"No, we'll bury them. I'd like to think they would do the same for our soldiers who fall on their land."

Athos followed d'Artagnan as he went to his room, seeing him hesitate as he took in the sight of the still body on what had been his bed.

"Are you up to this?"

d'Artagnan considered. "I'm not looking forward to the ride. But I can't wait to be back with everyone. I'll be okay."

Athos looked worried. It wasn't like d'Artagnan to admit to any weakness, and he'd just been knocked out, shot in the face and come within seconds of death.

"Hey, I just took down a Spanish patrol virtually single-handed. You need me back, Athos!"

Athos began to laugh, relief loosening his emotions so he found the expression of mock outrage on d'Artagnan's face funnier than his actual words. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you behind. Why don't you dig your weapons out from the – er, log pile while I get your horse? You can explain to me later why you were keeping them there."

He disappeared before d'Artagnan could begin to frame an explanation.

* * *

It was half an hour before they could get away. Everyone except those guarding the prisoners in the communal barn gathered in the square to wave them off. d'Artagnan found several people stuffing gifts of food into his saddlebags, and was much in demand for hugs and kisses from the village women. Norbert was in tears until d'Artagnan bent down and reminded him that he was a hero, and promised to come back to visit as soon as the war was over. The final farewell was from Ninette, who pressed a cloth-wrapped round of goat's cheese into his hands, in spite of his protests, and gave him a long hug before kissing him on the cheek and stepping back, fussing over her children while she regained her composure.

The solemnity of the moment was broken when someone suddenly remembered the roasting pig, swore, and set off a stampede towards the field where the spit had been set up, amidst laughter and encouragement from those left behind.

Athos brought Nuit over to the bench and helped d'Artagnan mount up from the wrong side so he wasn't putting weight on his left leg, a process he found frustratingly difficult after so long out of the saddle.

They rode out to a chorus of farewells and heartfelt thanks. d'Artagnan looked back wistfully just before they crested the hill to see Geraint standing next to Ninette, putting an arm around her shoulders as she waved.

A small smile played across d'Artagnan's lips as he turned, to find Athos watching him closely.

"That was a fond farewell," he commented. It wasn't quite a question.

"Mm," agreed d'Artagnan thoughtfully. "We had a, a near-miss I suppose you could call it." He glanced over. Athos was looking as inscrutable as always but d'Artagnan knew him better and realised he needed to clarify. "Nothing happened, she just didn't realise I was married. That reminds me, do you know where ... Oh." He stopped as Athos fished inside his doublet and leaned across to pass d'Artagnan his wedding band. "Thank you."

"Who stopped it? This near-miss?"

"I did." d'Artagnan answered without hesitating. "I almost forgot myself for a moment, but thankfully it was just a moment."

Athos nodded, then squeezed d'Artagnan unexpectedly on the shoulder. "I'm glad. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes explaining that one to Constance otherwise."

* * *

"d'Artagnan! D'ARTAGNAN!" The bellow that greeted them as they reached the crossroads left no one within half a mile in any doubt that Porthos was pleased to see him. There was a general surge towards them as musketeers scrambled to their feet, calling greetings and retrieving horses and weapons. Porthos of course practically yanked d'Artagnan off his horse to hug him, before spotting his bloodied forehead and chin and quickly stepping back in concern. "What 'appened?"

"We'll explain en route; we've lost time already," Athos cut in. "Chanteux, take five men; there is a small Spanish patrol back there, ready for transportation to Oloron if you don't mind. We'll camp about three hours from here so you should be able to catch up to us by dark."

In fact Athos called a halt in less than three hours. After the first excitement of seeing everyone, catching up with their news and explaining how he'd come by his latest injuries, d'Artagnan had fallen silent very quickly. Porthos stayed close beside him as the teasing about glory-hunting finally dried up, and he could see the effort d'Artagnan was making to stay upright. Athos was keeping the pace slow but even so it was clear from the sheen of sweat coating d'Artagnan's still gaunt features that he was in a lot of pain.

"d'Artagnan?"

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan responded automatically, earning himself a derisory snort.

"I was merely offering you water. You're sweating a lot." Athos' comment was pitched low but d'Artagnan could hear the concern clearly.

He swiped a hand down his face, wincing as his gloved fingers brushed the gash on his chin, and took the proffered water bottle, drinking long of the sweet, cool liquid before handing it back with grateful thanks.

"Hmm," was Athos' only comment.

d'Artagnan glanced across to where his Captain rode easily alongside him on the broad cart track, keeping to a steady walk. "It's been a while since I was in the saddle, that's all," he said uncomfortably. He was only too aware the musketeers had delayed their departure north long past the time most of those injured at Candanchú had needed to recover, and he knew he was responsible for their agonisingly slow pace now.

"Rubbish!" retorted Athos, and d'Artagnan looked at him in surprise, wondering if he'd spoken his thoughts aloud or whether Athos was reading his mind. Neither, it turned out, as Athos began listing the signs of pain that suggested he was a lot more than just saddle-sore. Squinting against the light (headache), wincing every time Nuit stumbled or broke into a jog in her impatience (painful ribs) and constant shifting in the saddle to try to ease the stretching of his left thigh were the prime give-aways, apparently.

"It is taking more effort to ride than I expected," admitted d'Artagnan reluctantly in classic understatement. In fact, he was struggling to keep quiet. He didn't know if the bones in his ribs had knitted yet, but each movement of his body to fit with the rhythm of Nuit's pace was agonising. He had tried both relaxing into her movement and stiffening his body against it, but nothing helped. He supposed it was simply that the muscles and ligaments around the wound were still newly healed and being stretched to their limits by the motion of being on horseback. It felt as if his whole side was on fire now and he wasn't sure how much longer he could cope. He hadn't resorted to biting his lip yet, but he was employing every mind-trick his brothers had ever taught him to control the pain.

There was a shout from ahead and his hand automatically shot to his sword-hilt, causing a further spike of discomfort that he could not muffle. Before he could gather himself Athos laid a restraining hand on his arm. "It's only Porthos."

d'Artagnan hadn't even noticed Porthos leaving his side. He was a complete liability to them, he thought in despair, as Athos nudged Roger into a canter towards where Porthos waited at a junction up ahead.

By the time he and the rest of the musketeers had caught up with them – Guérin taking Athos' place alongside him as invalid-escort – a decision had clearly been made and Athos was issuing instructions to follow Porthos to the camp spot he'd found, leaving two musketeers waiting at the crossroads until the prisoner escorts caught them up.

In a clearing not far from the Toulouse road, d'Artagnan stayed mounted as the others started dismounting and moving around each other easily in well-rehearsed roles. Two set about clearing the ground of brush and making a space for a fire while another couple set up a horse-line and took care of everyone's mounts, untacking and rubbing them down. Others fetched water and firewood and Porthos got the fire going, one of his favourite tasks. d'Artagnan leaned more and more heavily on the pommel of his saddle and contemplated the distance to the ground, wondering how he was going to dismount.

There was a polite cough from his right and he found Guérin holding Nuit's reins and Athos at his side, one hand stretched up ready to guide him down. "In your own time," he said, not quite sarcastically.

d'Artagnan tried to smile and knew it probably looked more like a grimace. "I'm not sure..." he started, wearily.

"Perhaps you'd rather sleep in the saddle?" enquired Guérin, deadpan.

"Want some help?" Porthos was there, dusting leaf-mould from his hands and reaching up to catch d'Artagnan's shoulders as he sagged.

They half carried him towards the young fire and helped him to sit. Athos fetched blankets from various saddlebags and Guérin handed him a cup of wine. d'Artagnan knew he should be thanking them but found he could not muster the energy to speak. He was desperate to ease the strain on his ribs but there was nothing to lean on in the clearing without moving away from the fire. He put the cup down and placed his hands either side of him to take his weight, but hissed as that position pulled on his shoulder. He wondered if anyone would mind if he just lay down in the middle of everything and slept.

"Lean back." A familiar voice preceded the sudden solid warmth at his back and he looked around to find Porthos settling down directly behind him, stretching his legs out either side of d'Artagnan's own and wrapping his arms gently around his chest so that his back rested on Porthos' chest as if he were a chair-back. "We can prop each other up. 'Bout time some of the youngsters learned what hard work is," Porthos chuckled softly, oblivious to the amused looks he was getting from the other musketeers. He was usually the last to sit down, not the first, when there was work to do.

d'Artagnan wanted to protest that he didn't need propping up but he was just too tired to argue, so he leaned into Porthos and sighed with relief. He was back. Not quite in one piece, yet, but after a good night's sleep, or two – three at most, he told himself – he would be back to normal; part of this team of men he held so dear, doing what he did best: fighting and protecting his brothers.

Speaking of which ... he pushed Porthos' arms away and sat upright. "Athos?"

Athos was there in an instant. "What's wrong?"

"No – nothing wrong. But I've been wanting to ask; at Candanchú, after the cannon blew, I wasn't really with it but I remember seeing someone standing over me. At least I think I did..."

Athos nodded. "He got past me. I thought he was going to kill you." That thought seemed all-too-familiar, and he took a moment to marvel at the Gascon's bad luck. Or was it good luck, since each time he somehow survived?

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes - why?" He didn't miss the look of utter relief that crossed d'Artagnan's features, and a sudden thought struck him. "Was that the captain whose name you remembered from your captivity?"

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "Not Ortega, no. I wasn't sure... thought perhaps I'd dreamt it but I thought I recognised him." He shut his eyes against the assessing look Athos was giving him. He was not ready to explain the overwhelming relief he felt at the confirmation that Bautista was dead by Athos' hand. It should have felt anticlimactic, but it didn't; somehow there was a comforting sense of rightness about it. His tormentor was dead, and he would never know the irony of the identity of the Frenchman who had dealt him the fatal blow.

* * *

The scent of roasted fish reached his nostrils and he opened one eye, surprised to realise he'd dozed off. Around him the men moved in familiar routines and he watching lazily as Guérin and Duval cleaned a small heap of river trout while San Marle stripped bark from sticks and threaded a fish onto each, and Reynard turned them slowly over the embers. The others graduated towards the fire, spreading their bedrolls and pouring wine. d'Artagnan suddenly remembered the food he'd been given by the villagers, and struggled upright again.

"Now what?" Porthos rumbled from behind him, sounding exasperated.

d'Artagnan explained and felt Porthos chuckling. "Athos didn't forget, lad. It's all in hand."

He looked around and sure enough found Athos carefully portioning out meat pies, fresh bread and goat's cheese. Before long everyone was holding a plate with the best meal any of them had seen for a long time, and a contented silence fell around the fire as they ate their fill.

"It's Christmas Eve," d'Artagnan remembered.

"Indeed." Athos raised a goblet and proposed a toast to the villagers of Spinau who had provided the bulk of their feast. Amid the enthusiastic cheers of the men, he caught d'Artagnan raising his own cup in Athos' direction, and knew instantly what d'Artagnan was doing: thanking him for being there at the right moment that afternoon. He gave a small nod back, and drank deeply from his own cup to camouflage the emotion that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. They'd come so close to losing d'Artagnan, more times over than he could remember, yet here he was amongst them again.

And it was time he properly acknowledged the Gascon's return to the Musketeers. He caught Guérin's eye, and the blonde-haired Musketeer grinned, rummaged in his saddlebag and pulled out something wrapped in sack-cloth. Athos set down his goblet and took the package, turning away from d'Artagnan slightly as he undid the string and loosened the covering.

d'Artagnan had eaten well and his eyes were already heavy with sleep when he noticed a change in the hum of voices around the fire as conversations suddenly died and an expectant hush fell over their small gathering. He looked up to find Athos coming towards him with an odd expression on his face.

"What's wrong?" He glanced rapidly around the fire, his senses immediately on high alert as he tried to work out what was going on. But he saw no alarm on anyone's faces, only smiles and anticipation. He looked back at Athos, now standing in front of him.

"We thought it was time you had this." He held out the package and d'Artagnan took it hesitantly, feeling something flat and firm wrapped up in the cloth. He looked back at his mentor, seeing an unaccustomed shyness in his eyes.

"What ...?"

"Just open it!" Porthos hissed in his ear impatiently.

Slowly, aware of everyone's eyes on him, he freed it from the cloth and stared at what lay in his hands: a gleaming leather pauldron in smooth new leather so dark that it looked almost black in the light of the campfire. In its centre was a burnished fleur-de-lis but that wasn't what caught d'Artagnan's attention; it was the double-groove carved below the fleur-de-lis, denoting a sub-lieutenant's rank, that made his breath hitch and his eyes burn hot.

He swallowed, running his fingers tentatively over the leather, tracing the lines etched into the leather reverently. Someone coughed, and someone else whispered something that was abruptly cut off as if he'd been elbowed in the ribs. d'Artagnan felt a smile spread across his face for the first time in hours. "Why? I mean, why now?" He looked up, meeting Athos' calm clear gaze effortlessly.

"It was meant to be weeks ago. That's what I was discussing with the General the night before Candanchú, before you interrupted us by dragging Colombe into my tent. It was his idea."

d'Artagnan stared at him. "General Faucille?" he asked, stupidly.

"How many Generals with any sense of honour do we know?"

d'Artagnan considered this, then waggled his head. "Good point."

"D'ya like it?" Porthos reached around from behind him, plucking the pauldron from his hands and turning it to the firelight to admire it.

"It's beautiful but... Are you sure?" He looked back up at Athos, who sighed, and came to sit next to them.

"What do you want, a fanfare?"

"Michaud does a good bugle imitation," Porthos added helpfully over d'Artagnan's shoulder, grinning as both d'Artagnan and Athos turned to give him an incredulous look.

"The General felt you were wasted in the ranks, and I tended to agree with him."

"Should'a done it in front of everyone but you buggered that up when you got y'self blown up," Porthos added.

Athos smiled his thanks as Guérin brought his cup over and handed it to him.

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly. "I'm glad it's here, with just us." He held the pauldron out to Athos and waited expectantly.

"I wasn't sure if you would mind giving up your old one. I know it has meaning for you."

d'Artagnan glanced down at his right shoulder. "I will keep it." His mouth twitched as he remembered the sun beating down on the parade ground at the Louvre the morning he defeated Labarge and won his commission from the King. "But ..." He hesitated, not wanting to express out loud how he felt about the raw edge where the marks denoting his officer status had been cut off a few weeks ago.

"That's why we wanted to give you a new one." Porthos' breath was warm on his cheek as he answered what d'Artagnan couldn't articulate.

d'Artagnan felt suddenly overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness and planning that had produced such a beautiful pauldron in the middle of the war. "Who made it?"

Guérin reached over and started removing his old pauldron. "Marcel did most of the leatherwork and we found a craftsman in Arette to do the metalwork." He pulled off the old, battered-looking pauldron and Athos buckled on the new one. It felt stiff on his shoulder, but fitted perfectly.

Behind him Porthos chuckled and patted d'Artagnan's arm. "Looks good."

d'Artagnan nodded, his smile growing wider. "I love it." He caught Athos' eye again. "Thank you," he almost whispered.

Athos tipped his head in acknowledgement, drained his cup and set it down, watching Porthos talk quietly into d'Artagnan's ear. The Gascon nodded sleepily as Porthos shifted to allow him to lie down and within moments he was asleep.

A log settled amidst a flurry of crackles, and glowing sparks drifted up into the darkening sky. Athos watched them rise and felt a warmth settle into his body that, he knew, had little to do with the fire's embers or the food they'd just enjoyed. It was mostly from his contentment at heading north again, in the company of a small band of trusted Musketeers, no longer swamped by the infantry regiments of the southern army. And sheer relief that he was taking both Porthos and d'Artagnan with him.

He'd lost a lot of men in the last few years, but it could have been far worse, thanks in no small part to these two. Porthos was all heart: steadfast, indomitable, and relentless in his drive to keep everyone around him safe. And d'Artagnan? He was all fire; blazing a trail that others followed without hesitation. He'd caught a glimpse of it again that afternoon, that fire that burned deep inside him, blazing defiance from his eyes even as he stared into the face of the Spaniard holding a pistol to his throat.

Athos drew in a long breath and tipped his head back, seeing the evening star shimmer in the fire's updraught. He felt an unaccustomed smile tugging at his lips as he felt the cares and worries of the last few years dropping away from his shoulders. The King's Musketeers were on the road again, and it felt good.


	24. Epilogue

**Epilogue: Paris, 1636**

"An' the rest you know, pretty much." Porthos looked around the office as Aramis nodded; he'd heard all about their most recent campaigns in the north on the journey back to Paris together after meeting up with him in Douai. And of course he'd heard about the early part of the war from d'Artagnan, both during his recuperation in Douai and when he'd finally talked to them all about his captivity a few days ago. It was only the middle part that no-one had spoken about, and now he understood why. It had been far too intense to speak of lightly.

"So..." he started, when it became apparent that the others were still lost in memories. "Are there any last thoughts, or final confessions? Because if not, I have a strong fancy to enquire after tonight's supper. All that talk of roast fish and goats cheese has nudged my appetite towards starvation!"

No one answered straight away and he looked around anxiously, but there didn't seem to be any tension in the room, more an air of contemplation. There was a pause, then Athos spoke, looking at d'Artagnan, his voice low. "I thought I'd killed you." Aramis blinked for a moment in confusion, before remembering what Athos had told them of Spinau, when d'Artagnan had collapsed under the body of the Spaniard.

d'Artagnan smiled and rose, walking around to where Athos sat behind his desk, rested his hands on his shoulders, then started to massage him around the base of his neck.

Aramis could feel an eyebrow rising, apparently of its own accord, and saw a corresponding look of disbelief on Constance's face as they both watched the normally guarded man accepting a display of public affection from her husband. He caught her eye and winked at her. "Things really have changed around here, haven't they?"

She nodded slowly, watching as Athos patted d'Artagnan absently on the hand and jerked his chin at the Gascon to take a seat.

As soon as everyone had settled again Athos took a tight breath then began: "d'Artagnan, I – "

"No, you don't."

Athos' eyebrow twitched. d'Artagnan's lips rose at the corners as he regarded Athos steadily, then he shrugged as his smile spread. Athos snorted and tipped his head back with an air of resignation, then shook his head ruefully.

"Right, now that's sorted can we get back to drinkin'?" Porthos asked innocently.

Constance sent a despairing look at Aramis, who grinned at her and leaned in close. "What just happened?" she whispered.

"Athos tried to apologise, d'Artagnan told him he didn't need to, Athos asked if he was quite sure, because he bloody well wasn't going to offer again, d'Artagnan told him not to be such a dim-witted oaf, and Athos gave in," Aramis explained without hesitation.

There was a tiny silence and a snorted laugh from Porthos, then d'Artagnan leaned across to Aramis and said in a stage whisper: "Not bad, but I wasn't nearly as polite as that."

Aramis rolled his eyes and whispered back: "Ladies present, d'Artagnan. Honestly!" such a tone of parental disapproval that d'Artagnan burst out laughing and nearly shoved him off his chair.

Aramis righted himself, and tried not to let the smirk show on his face as he realised that not once in that exchange had he felt like an outsider.

The talk slowly turned to other matters as they shared the wine around. It was late, and d'Artagnan was starting to think pleasant thoughts about taking his wife to bed and continuing his efforts to put the past behind him by reacquainting himself with every inch of her body, when he noticed how quiet she was. He nudged her and asked her quietly: "Constance, are you content?" She nodded, but he put a finger under her chin and turned her head gently so he could see her expression more clearly in the candlelight. "Really?"

She sighed. "I was just thinking about everything."

"And?" His tone was still quiet but she picked up on the underlying tension in that single word, and hastened to squeeze his hand to reassure him. Her thoughtful, courageous husband had worried so much about revealing exactly what happened in the war and she knew it would take more than a few days before he accepted that nothing had changed between them.

"I just can't believe..." She was picking her words slowly, trying to marshal her thoughts, and felt him shift impatiently next to her. "Sorry, I mean... Look, the other day, when you told us about being r-raped ..." She still stumbled over that word but d'Artagnan had used it himself, and told her matter-of-factly that talking about it was helping him to lay the ghosts to rest. "I thought that was the worst thing that could have happened to you – to anyone."

"Isn't it?" Aramis asked her, perhaps more sharply than he intended. For two years he'd been the only one to know of the rape, after d'Artagnan came to him to recuperate in Douai, and he'd felt the responsibility of that knowledge keenly, especially having watched him ride back to the front after only a few weeks when still far from fully recovered. Hearing what had transpired after d'Artagnan's return to the southern army had only confirmed Aramis' worst fears about his vulnerability at that time.

Constance looked up, realising the others had fallen silent to listen to the quiet conversation between d'Artagnan and her, but it was her husband who answered. "No. I don't think it was the worst thing. But I'd be interested to hear what you think?"

She swallowed, feeling embarrassed at being asked her opinion of their war experiences in front of these four hardened soldiers, but d'Artagnan's expression was encouraging and she realised he genuinely wanted to know. "Well, I suppose... losing good friends like Fouchard. And Jambert," she added, remember the other man whose death d'Artagnan had described with such a sense of loss*. She glanced at d'Artagnan anxiously but saw nothing worse than regret on his features. Emboldened, she carried on. "And for Athos, I think having to hurt d'Artagnan that way so publicly, and then not being able to talk to him to put it right..." She saw Athos grimace and stopped speaking, worried she was making things worse, but d'Artagnan huffed and stuck out a foot, managing to kick Athos gently under the desk, and she caught such a look of warm acceptance between them that she couldn't speak for a moment.

Then it came to her. This, _this_ was what she didn't understand. She welcomed it, was in awe of it, but how could these men go through everything and still be so – _whole_? Athos had flogged d'Artagnan in front of half an army: the most humiliating punishment for something that was outside his control, when he was at his most vulnerable, and they hadn't been able to talk about it for two years, and yet they were fine? They'd said – what, five words – and that was it? She knew they'd been through so much together since then, and had clearly long since come to terms with it. But after d'Artagnan's revelation about being raped the reason behind his punishment had clearly bothered Athos, yet they'd nodded, and that seemed to be the end of it.

That wasn't all she struggled to understand. All of them had lived with the constant fear and exhaustion during wartime, and the knowledge that at any moment they could be – would be – sent into battle again, time after time; that the chances of being injured were far greater than ending the day unscathed; that any injury would lead to days of painful treatment if not an agonizing death, far from the comforts of home. They sometimes had days without proper food; weeks without a full night's sleep; months without a hot bath. And through all of that they had somehow retained their sense of honour, of justice. They were able to care for each other – to the extent of sharing a musket shot, as Athos had done for d'Artagnan in order to keep him safe, literally laying his body down to protect his brother. And they didn't just care, but _understood_ each other, well enough to have a whole conversation in a few words, as Athos and d'Artagnan had just demonstrated. And not just to understand, but forgive, and love, in spite of everything they had seen and done.

She was rambling aloud, trying to explain what she didn't understand. Oh, she'd been in danger herself, and done her share of fighting, since she met this foursome. She thought of the fight against Gaudet, when she'd first met d'Artagnan and ended up shooting a man to save his life; and her first sword fight when they'd rescued the baby Henry from his kidnappers, the near riot at the refugee camp just a few weeks ago, and the showdown at Cristophe's inn when they'd had to rescue Tréville and Porthos from the disaffected soldiers. Those battles had been terrifying but brief, and adrenaline had propelled her through them. But afterwards she'd had d'Artagnan and the others to comfort her, and could return to her safe routine to catch her breath. War didn't give you that respite.

"It's easier that way." d'Artagnan tried to explain. "The hardest bits are when you catch a glimpse of normal life going on around you, and yearning for it. Like when we took Marcus and Madeline to the Peltiers near Ossès*, or after staying in Spinau, when I had to rejoin the others – it was hard leaving them after spending time with those kids and seeing them prepare for Christmas, even though I was desperate to get back to the others."

"S'right," Porthos chipped in. "Much better to just forget about comfort and – " But he didn't finish, as Constance suddenly interrupted him, swiping crossly at a tear that had escaped unheeded and was now dripping unattractively from her nose.

"Speaking of Spinau," – and her tone was uncompromising enough for d'Artagnan to flinch even before he knew what was coming – "What did Athos mean when he said you'd ' _nearly had a moment_ ' with Ninette?"

Ah. Athos had been so engrossed in that part of the tale he hadn't censored his account, but she'd said nothing at the time and d'Artagnan had begun to hope she hadn't noticed. Of course he should have known better!

He looked at her, seeing the familiar glare, the jut of her chin, the tension in her body as she waited his response, and took a moment to marvel that it didn't feel odd having this kind of conversation in front of the others. He just wished he knew how to explain what had – or hadn't – happened.

"He told me about it as we rode away from Spinau." Athos' voice was quiet and contemplative as he broke the silence, and d'Artagnan breathed a silent sigh of relief as Constance turned to listen to Athos, her body relaxing a little.

"Ninette was pretty, and a lovely person. He told me he'd grown so fond of the whole family that he wanted to take you there one day to meet them. He couldn't wait to show you the village and the people who'd helped to save his life. It seems Ninette misunderstood his feeling of gratitude for something else."

d'Artagnan looked at Constance, seeing the words settle in her mind, then watched as the niggle of doubt crept up again.

"But you still nearly had a moment – not her, _you_?"

This time he couldn't leave it to Athos to respond. He tried to be honest, knowing it was risky but not knowing any other way. "Not really. She took me by surprise, and I'd been thinking of you. For a second I nearly responded, before my brain kicked back in and I pulled away." He paused, watching her, knowing if he protested too much it would make it worse. But before he could go on, Aramis pitched in.

"Biggest compliment a man can pay, that is," he announced cheerfully. Everyone looked at him. "I wouldn't have stopped her. Pretty woman, warm sun, wartime – who wouldn't? Well, your husband wouldn't – more fool him." He said it fondly and d'Artagnan smiled, knowing what Aramis was trying to do.

Constance was staring at him assessingly. "So I'm supposed to be impressed because you were only _nearly_ unfaithful to me?"

d'Artagnan wrinkled his nose. It didn't sound quite so good put that way. "Not impressed. There is nothing good about temptation, even for a second. But I promise you, as soon as I realised what was happening - what could have happened - all I could think of was you. It just ... it just made me miss you all the more." He said the last bit so quietly, and so lovingly, that Constance could only sniff and lean into him, resting her head on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer, and for a moment there was only the sound of the fire crackling and slow breathing.

"All right then," she muttered, after a pause. "But what about the rest? How can you wake up every day knowing it may be your last, every day – for years?"

They all looked at each other. Aramis shrugged as if to say count me out, but Porthos shook his head. "You know as well as any of us, _mon ami_."

Aramis looked around, slightly sheepishly. "Well, for me it's about knowing that you're needed; that your friends are depending on you." He stopped short, realising just how close to shaky ground he was. But Porthos was nodding, encouraging him. He smiled, ruefully. "I've let people down too many times, and I know how it feels, and I never want to feel that way again."

Porthos patted him absently on his shoulder, his own eyes looking almost black in the firelight, and Constance could see he was quite emotional. "It's the same for me, mate. Same for me. Just want to make sure everyone's safe, Constance, that's all it is."

She smiled at them both, wrapping her arm more tightly around d'Artagnan's waist. Was it really that simple?

Athos suddenly rose, and came over to where she sat close to her husband, bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek. It was so sudden and unexpected that she found herself blushing. "What was that for?" she asked, to cover her embarrassment.

"For asking good questions," he answered her, seriously.

"Which you haven't answered, I notice," she retorted tartly.

He stood looking down at the pair of them, and rubbed his forehead, looking uncomfortable. "I just do what needs doing," he answered after a moment.

d'Artagnan snorted. "You sell yourself short, my friend. I don't know anyone else who would race up a cliff face towards a cannon you suspect has been spiked, then hurl himself over the edge of a mountain – oh, and stop a musket ball – for someone you thought was as good as dead." He paused a moment, then added thoughtfully " ... Except maybe Porthos or Aramis. You would no doubt have done it too, given the chance." He hurried on before any of them could protest. "I owe you such a debt, Athos, and – "

"There are no debts between friends." Athos' voice was low but firm, and brooked no argument, and there were nods all round.

"And no fear, either," added Porthos. "Least, if there is it doesn't matter, because your friends are the ones you'd die for, so you don't notice the fear."

"You told me that thing, didn't you? Before my first battle, about looking to your right, and your left, and seeing that a Musketeer is never alone?" At Porthos' nod, d'Artagnan went on. "That's who we fight for, isn't it: each other. But it's not just finding something – someone – worth dying for. If you're really lucky, the thing you'd die for turns out to be something worth living for, too."

There was a moment's stillness in the room, then Athos clasped d'Artagnan's shoulder and squeezed it gently before picking up the wine bottle and offering it round.

"Nah, I'm good. Gonna take this one for a meal," Porthos said, levering himself to his feet. "If we're done, that is?"

To nods all round, he hauled Aramis to his feet and draped an arm over his shoulders.

"Did you really tell him my thing about looking to your left and right?" Aramis asked him as they weaved a well-lubricated path towards the door.

"Course I did. Most sensible thing you ever tol' me, that was... ow!"

d'Artagnan sniggered as Aramis elbowed Porthos in the ribs as they disappeared, then stretched, and looked hopefully at Constance. She caught his sideways glance and tutted, standing so abruptly he nearly toppled off the window seat. "I know that look, and you can think again." She turned to Athos. "As for you..." He had stood when she rose, and now waited with only a tiny hint of apprehension. "You are ... forgiven. Three times over, by the sound of it."

"Four times," corrected d'Artagnan, "including killing that Spaniard in Spinau. And many other times, in other battles –"

"And you repaid me as many times over, d'Artagnan."

They looked at each other, each seeing the signs of those four years reflected in the other's face.

"No debts, remember?" d'Artagnan said softly, and was rewarded with a shy smile from Athos.

"Well, I have things to do," said Constance firmly, heading for the door without waiting for d'Artagnan. Not the least of which, she knew, was finding some time to herself so she could come to terms with everything they'd revealed to her today.

d'Artagnan caught her up at the top of the stairs. "Are you alright, Constance?" he enquired gently.

She turned to glare at him, but softened instantly on seeing the look of concern on his face. How could she not be alright, if he was? Pushing her own tumultuous feelings down deep, she smiled her reassurance at him and answered honestly. "I am – if you are."

He took her left hand in his to escort her down the steps. His right arm slipped around her waist and his hand drifted lower, experimentally. She pushed it away, instinctively glancing down into the courtyard to see if they were being watched, and he laughed aloud, throwing his head back in sheer joy at the familiarity of the dance.

Athos leaned on the balcony railing and watched them descend to the courtyard, Constance now giggling as d'Artagnan tried to plant a kiss on her neck, cursing softly as she skipped away from his warmth. On impulse, Athos called out to them.

"d'Artagnan!"

They both stopped and turned enquiring faces up to where he stood in the shadows of the balcony.

"See you at muster," he called, his lips twitching as d'Artagnan's happy anticipation faded from his face at the thought of evening muster, only an hour or so away. "Eight am," he added firmly, waiting until the penny dropped and d'Artagnan realised he was being offered a night off.

"Aye, Sir," he called back up, tipping an imaginary hat at his Captain as he turned to catch Constance up again. Athos watched them with a fond smile, then raised his eyes to the rest of the courtyard, watching his men moving quietly around at their evening chores. He heard a burst of laughter from the mess room and sniffed appreciatively at the savoury smell drifting up. He shivered in the cool air, and looked up, seeing the early evening stars brightening across the dusky sky, then turned back to his office feeling a rare moment of peace settle over his shoulders. They had survived the war and indeed grown stronger because of what they'd faced, both together and apart. There was still a battle to be fought for Paris and the King, but just for tonight he allowed himself a moment of optimism. They knew what they were fighting for; for each other, and for honour, and love, and friendship; and it was worth dying for. No, he corrected himself, remembering d'Artagnan's words. It was worth living for.

* * *

* _The story of Jambert and the children Marcus and Madeline was told in Battlescars 2: Light Up the Dark_.

 _And there we are, at the end of another story, with the usual mix of regret, relief and a sense of achievement battling for supremacy. It's turned out just a teensy bit longer than I imagined when I came up with three or four scenarios (the night-run to save Porthos, being captured by the Spanish, the conflict with army regulations and Athos making up for it by rescuing d'Artagnan in a battle), all to explore the impact of war and the changes in them between Seasons 2 and 3. I never imagined writing some 230,000 words and over 400 pages! Thank you so much to those who stayed with me throughout. I lost faith in it many times but your encouragement and comments have kept me going, so I give one last heartfelt thank you to all of you who have shared your enjoyment with me over the last year (!), including the guests (Debbie, Cynthua, Doubtful Guest, Zoe, Guest, Julie Pettitt, That one girl and DragonMusketeer), to whom I cannot reply directly but whose comments and speculation I have loved. I am sure I will be back with another (maybe shorter?!) story before long so until then, keep safe and share the love!_

Note: Words from Paradise Fear's Battlescars provided the chapter titles for parts 1 & 2, and here are the words to their song Warriors which inspired the chapter headings for most of part 3:

I've spent twelve months

Fighting this illusion of me.

Stuck in the shadows

Of the person I'm supposed to be

And lines got blurred

Somewhere in between

My father's son

And their twisted fantasy

And I felt empty

What's left of me?

There's a soul

There's a pulse

There's a warrior

There's a hole where my heart used to be  
Now I'm filling it up with all the things  
I always said I'd be

So I let you in  
But I'm so scared of what you'll see  
Just skin and bones  
Hiding this monster inside of me

And I don't need much  
I just need a little room to breathe  
And I need you  
But I'm not so sure you need me

And I felt empty  
What's left of me?


End file.
